Chess
by saxgirl42
Summary: Wherein Heaven and Hell start a brand new game, which endangers a certain Agreement and brings havoc back to a little place called London.
1. In Which People Can't Sleep

_**Author's Note:** Phew. This is going to be a laaarge undertaking, but I'm up for the challenge! _

_Welcome, readers, to my first multi-chapter Good Omens story. It takes place after the events of the book, includes many of the same characters and some new, and is probably going to be long-ish. Honestly, that's about all I have to say here. So please just read, review, and enjoy! Thanks!_

_**Disclaimer:** I do not claim Good Omens as my own. It belongs to Pratchett and Gaiman._

o-o-o

_"White always moves first in a game of chess."_

o-o-o

**1. In Which People Can't Sleep**

Imagine, if you will, a quiet London street in late evening. Now add a terrified little girl and two dark men chasing her, and you will understand our opening scene.

The little girl was crying. Her dress was ripped in places, revealing bruises and smears of blood. One of her pigtails was frayed and almost out of its holder, the dark brown curls bouncing wildly across her back. She kept swiping a hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears that impeded her vision, and she was already gasping for breath and whimpering at the pain in her twisted ankle.

Up ahead she could see that one of the stores on the street was still lit despite the late hour. She increased her speed, heading for the shop, and the men behind her began to yell.

"Come on, girl, we don't mean no harm!"

"Yeah! We just need to borrow you for a while!"

The girl choked back a sob of pure panic and pumped her little legs faster. Her ankle was throbbing but she focused her entire eight-year old mind on ignoring it just to get to that brightly lit store. Something told her that if she managed to reach the shop, she would be safe. Nothing would get to her there. Everything would be better.

She approached at a sprint and slammed full-force into the door, pounding on it with her little fist.

"Help! Someone, please help me!" she screamed, beating on the door with all her might. She could still hear the men running to catch up with her, their voices getting closer, louder, angrier.

Finally, she saw a silhouette appear against the bright lights shining through the window on the door. The lock clicked and the door opened, revealing a kind-looking blond man with a stunned expression on his face. The little girl wasted no time. As soon as the door was opened wide enough for her to slip through, she entered the shop and grabbed the man tightly around the legs, burying her face into his dark trousers.

"Please help me," she sobbed, her voice muffled a bit by the fabric. A gentle hand came to rest on her head just as the two men chasing her skidded to a halt outside the shop.

"Shit," the smaller one hissed. "We can't go in there. You know who that is?"

"Nah, but you feel that?"

"Yeah, dumb ass, that's what I mean!"

"Fuck. What do we do now?"

"May I help you two?" A firm but amiable voice cut through the dark men's chatter, and the girl hugged herself closer to the source. For some reason the dark men would not enter this shop, and the little girl knew it was because of this man. He would keep her safe.

"Uh, well, you wouldn't happen to wanna give up that girl, now, would ya?" the larger man asked.

"I'm afraid not," the girl's savior said.

"Yeah, all right," the other dark man said, ignoring his companion's mumbles of annoyance. "Then we'll go for now, but we'll be back. You can't hide there forever, girly!"

The little girl shivered and clung to her savior's legs, not even daring to look back outside at the men who had tried to capture her. A moment passed during which the men could be heard arguing as they stalked off, and then the man she was holding onto closed and locked the shop door, cutting off all sound from the street.

"Now," the man said softly, prying the little girl's fingers from the back of his trousers, "who do we have here?" He crouched down in front of her and smiled. The little girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

"Molly," she mumbled. The man's smile broadened and he produced a handkerchief seemingly from nowhere, taking her chin in one hand and dabbing at her tears with the other.

"Well, Molly. What are you doing out so late?" he asked.

"I ran away."

"From home?"

"It's not my home," the little girl said, glaring slightly but not fighting the gentle hands that were now wiping up the blood and dirt smudges from her face and hands. "It's just a foster home."

"Ah." The man stopped rubbing for a moment. "You're an orphan, then?"

"Yes."

There was a still silence for a moment, but then the rubbing resumed. Molly took the opportunity to look around the shop a bit.

"You sell books?" she asked, dark eyes widening at the many precariously stacked piles and overstuffed shelves spread around the store.

"Yes." The man ceased his cleaning and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. "Do you like to read?"

"Mm-hm."

"Well, then it would seem we have something in common," the man said with a smile.

"Seems like it!" Molly said, her mood miraculously improving in that instantaneous way only children can master. "What's your name?" she asked. The man's pale eyes widened in mock horror.

"Oh, dear," he said. "How terribly rude of me! You can call me Mr. Fell."

"Thank you for saving me, Mr. Fell," Molly said, leaning forward and hugging the man tightly around the neck. He returned the hug with a little laugh.

"You're very welcome," he said. He shifted his hands to her waist and lifted her up, setting her on the counter so they could be at eye level without him having to kneel. "Now," he said, pale eyes twinkling. "Is there anyone you would like me to call?"

"No," Molly said firmly. "I ran away and I'm not going back."

"But won't your foster-parents be worried?"

"I don't think they know I'm gone yet," Molly said logically. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow.

"But they'll have to find out eventually, right? And then what?"

"Can't I just stay with you?"

Aziraphale blinked, caught slightly off-guard. The girl was looking at him with wide brown doe eyes, so innocent, so hopeful… absolutely impossible to resist, especially for him. He opened his mouth to reply, then just sighed.

"For the night," he said, managing to at least cast a stern eye upon the little girl. "But in the morning, we talk." Molly grinned widely, sensing victory.

"Okay." She held her arms out to be lifted down from the counter and Aziraphale obliged her. As soon as she was set on her feet she reached for his hand and let him lead her into the back room. She glanced out the front window while Aziraphale flipped the shop lights off and could have sworn she saw two dark silhouettes standing across the street. Molly shivered and huddled closer to Aziraphale's legs, gripping his hand tightly.

He would keep her safe.

o-o-o

It was common knowledge to anyone who knew the mysterious inhabitant in apartment 13C that banging on the door in the middle of the night was a good way to get something mildly unpleasant shoved in your face. Like a middle finger. Or a gun barrel.

So it was with great trepidation that the two dark figures approached the door, knowing they would have to knock on it at some point.

"You do it," the larger one said.

"What, are you out of your bloomin' mind? I ain't touchin' that door," his smaller companion retorted.

"Well, one of us has to!"

"Can't we just wait?"

"Wait for what? For the boss to find out we failed to nab the girl, _and_ that she's now under holy protection?"

"… Good point. But I'm still not knockin'," the smaller figure said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"Well neither am I!"

"Don't make me pull rank on you, Foras, 'cause I will."

"How in blazes will you do that? We're at the same level."

"… Are we really?"

"Yes."

"I could've sworn I was above you."

"Nope. Same rank."

"Really. You ain't shittin'?"

"Honest."

"I wouldn't trust him," a smooth voice cut in from the direction of the now-opened door. "He's a demon. Demons lie like snakes."

"You make a good point," the smaller demon said. Then he paused, thought a little, and made significant eye contact with his companion. The fact that they were no longer alone seemed to dawn on them at the same time and they both turned back to the open door with a gasp and a bow.

"Master Crawly, sir!"

"So sorry to wake you, sir!"

"At ease, gents," Crowley drawled, leaning against the doorframe and watching the two lower ranked demons grovel. He yawned and stirred his glass of scotch absently, making the ice clink. "Is there a reason you two are hovering outside my door at two in the morning?"

"We, um, need some help."

"Mm-hm," Crowley said, sipping the scotch.

"And we knew you was stationed here, so we figured you'd help."

"I see."

"So… you know… we thought we'd come see ya," the smaller demon finished lamely. Crowley raised an eyebrow. (He might have found it funny to realize that he raised his eyebrow in almost exactly the same manner as Aziraphale.)

"You do know you haven't properly _asked_ me for anything yet," he said.

"I was gettin' to that!" the smaller demon said hurriedly.

"Well, you may want to get to it faster. I have very little patience at two in the morning."

"Peace, Crawly," called a low voice from inside Crowley's flat. Crowley was rather proud of himself for not jumping out of his skin before turning to see who had spoken.

At first glance it looked like a large dark wolf was sitting upon Crowley's sofa, but after a blink or two the image cleared into a wolfishly-grinning dark-skinned man. He spread his huge hands amiably.

"I apologize for my lackeys, dear Crawly," he said, his voice a rumbling baritone that Crowley could feel in his bones. The sound would have made his blood run cold if it had been running at all. (Just because he hadn't jumped at the newcomer did not mean he hadn't been startled enough for his heart to stop. Luckily, being what he was, heartbeats were rather unnecessary.)

"Good minions are hard to find these days, you know," the dark man continued. Crowley forced a grin.

"I can imagine," he said. "You look well, Amon. How is dukedom treating you?"

"I would say great, only at the moment I'm being forced to serve under a bleeding _Earl_ of Hell. Can you imagine? Forty infernal legions in my command, and I still have to report to a stuffy old Earl." Amon shook his great head. "I tell ya." He got to his feet. It seemed to take forever for him to unfold. Standing, he towered over Crowley by about a foot.

"Hey, boss," the smaller demon said from behind Crowley. "We was just –"

"I know what you were 'just,' Surgat," Amon boomed, making the entire flat tremble. "You don't think I was watching? You two are an utter disgrace to demons everywhere. Be out of my sight."

He didn't have to say it twice.

"So," Crowley said awkwardly once the two lesser demons had fled. "Er. What's this all about?"

"You haven't heard?" Amon asked, fixing Crowley with an incredulous look.

"I'm afraid not."

"Well, I'll be saved." Amon settled himself on the white sofa again and gestured for Crowley to join him. Crowley, however, decided that his pride would be better served if he remained at least five feet away from the larger demon, so he politely declined. "You really haven't heard?" Crowley shook his head and, upon noticing his scotch was gone, poured himself another, then drained that one, as well. Amon appeared not to notice.

"Well," Amon began, "you, of course, know all about the Armageddon that never was, right? In the middle of the whole thing, you were. So. It's been, what, eight? Nine years, since then?"

"About," Crowley admitted.

"Right. So, the guys Down There have been getting antsy lately. Keep thinking that Heaven's up to something, what with all this damn peace and quiet. So this Earl I'm serving under – name's Raum, real creepy guy, maybe you've heard of him –" (Crowley almost choked on his fifth sequential glass of scotch but Amon remained oblivious) "– well he gets this idea to spy on a couple of angels in America, and you'll never guess what he finds out." Amon paused dramatically, dark eyes narrowed at Crowley.

"What?" Crowley rasped obligingly, eyes watering from the unpleasant sensation of almost shooting scotch out of his nose.

Amon grinned wolfishly, baring teeth that appeared too white for his dark skin, and were far too sharp to be human.

"Heaven's made a move," he said softly, his voice a deep rumble. "The game's started again, and this time we have the advantage."

"Oh," said Crowley. "That's nice."

"_Nice_?" Amon boomed. "It's a fair bit better than 'nice'! Don't you see? We're getting another chance to win!"

"Ah. Yes. Well, that is good news." Crowley placed his glass very deliberately on the table, avoiding meeting Amon's eyes. "And am I to be involved in this 'new game'?"

"I would assume so," Amon said, calm once again. "I mean, everyone's going to be involved eventually."

"So what did those two want from me?"

"Those idiots." Amon shook his great head. "They were supposed to kidnap a young girl here in London, but they can't even accomplish _that_."

"A girl?"

"Yeah. Real important, this girl is, but Raum hasn't been telling anyone exactly why. I guess now she's under divine protection, which just complicates things."

Crowley's mouth went dry. "Divine protection, eh? Here in the city?"

"Oh yeah. I thought you'd know something about that," Amon said, narrowing his dark eyes. "You're in contact with the angel stationed here, aren't you?"

"On and off," Crowley lied. He had actually just seen Aziraphale that day for lunch and a walk in St. James' Park.

Amon grimaced, revealing those impossibly white teeth again. "Well, that's the guy who's got her. I wouldn't be surprised if Raum contacts you sometime soon just so you can get her back."

"_I_ have to get her back?"

"Well, you know the angel, right? It should be easy." Amon stood with a grunt and held out a massive hand, which Crowley shook rather meekly. "It's been nice catching up. Hopefully I'll see you again soon, eh?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, watching as black smoke engulfed the Duke and the pungent smell of sulfur spread through the room. "Hopefully."

o-o-o

Anathema Pulsifer (formally Device) could not sleep.

The windows of her bedroom in Jasmine Cottage were opened to allow a gentle breeze. Her husband slept soundly beside her, breathing rather wheezily through his nose. She was not too hot, or too cold, or uncomfortable in any way.

She merely could not sleep.

It took her almost an hour to figure out what it was that was bothering her, but once it hit her, it refused to leave. It was a certain manuscript from a certain relative of hers, entitled _Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com: Ye Saga Continuef!_ It had been specially delivered to her door eight years earlier, and she had almost succeeded in keeping it out of her mind forever.

_Almost_ being the key word in that sentence, of course.

_Bugger_, Anathema thought.

She sighed and rolled over so that she was facing the closet to the side of her bed. She knew the manuscript was in there, stuffed away in the chest it had come in, just waiting to be read. It was almost like she could hear it calling to her.

No. No, she had told Newt she wouldn't read it, and she would keep her word.

But… why tonight? Why hadn't she been this tempted to read it before? It had been there for _years_. Why taunt her now?

Anathema sighed for what felt like the eightieth time that night and turned back over, still hoping in vain for some sleep.

But if she had been reading the prophecies for the past few years, or even if she had allowed herself to open the manuscript that night instead of just turning over in an attempt to force sleep, she would have known the answers to all of her questions, and she would have been prepared.

o-o-o

A long way away, in a plain not known to humans and inhabited only by the very powerful and the very dead, Agnes Nutter shook her head.

This would be harder than she thought.

o-o-o

Adam Young (aka the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness) also couldn't sleep, but for completely different reasons.

Number One: He was nineteen.

Number Two: He had consumed copious amounts of alcohol. (But still just enough to get him buzzed. He had the liver of an ox.)

Number Three: He currently had a pretty young thing straddling him and trying to stick her tongue down his throat.

Being nineteen and home alone for the weekend definitely had its perks.

"So…" the girl panted, staring at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes as she let Adam rain kisses on her throat. "When are we… _nngh_… gonna take this… into the bedroom?"

"We're not," Adam said bluntly, nipping almost painfully at her jugular. The girl giggled, thinking it was foreplay.

"Huh?"

Adam paused in his ministrations and rolled his eyes, wondering why all of his conquests turned out to be such mindless floozies.

_THRUM._

Adam froze.

"What's wrong?" the girl asked, draping her arms around his neck. Adam shook his head.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it." He moved in to catch the girl's lips again when…

_THRUM_.

There it was again! Adam pulled away from the girl and listened hard. It was as though something was calling to him, something that desperately needed his attention, and fast.

"What is it?" the girl asked, now positively annoyed. "It's that red-head, innit? You're feeling guilty about this!"

(Let it be noted that the girl and Adam were thinking of two separate redheads. The girl was thinking of the deadly-looking beauty in one of the photographs in Adam's room, which showed the two of them grinning and flashing ironic peace signs at the site of one of Africa's bloodiest massacres. Adam was thinking of a redhead with considerably more freckles.)

"Er… not quite," he said. "It's something else. Now hush."

The girl fisted her hands on her hips and scowled.

"What, then, is it some great Antichrist thing?"

(Adam liked to tell girls that he was the Antichrist. Many just assumed it was a joke. For others it was a huge turn-on. For the majority it just didn't matter. After all, who cared what kind of crap he spewed as long as he still looked like a blonde Adonis?)

_THRUM_.

"That's it," Adam said, shoving the girl unceremoniously off his lap and onto the floor. "I can't do this. I have to go."

"Fine," the girl snapped, gathering the few clothes she had already shed. "See if this ever happens again." And she stormed out.

"Next Friday," Adam muttered to himself, and then threw on a white t-shirt, grabbed the keys to his father's car, and headed out.*

His destination: London.

o-o-o

* Citizens! This author is in no way condoning drunk driving. Adam is the Antichrist, and this is a work of (fan) fiction. He will be fine. You should not attempt.

o-o-o

_**A/N**: There you have it! The first chapter. Please leave some feedback - I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks, guys!_


	2. In Which Crowley Gets Kicked

_**Author's Note:** I'm sorry, this update took so much longer than I thought it would! The amount of writing I have to do this semester is kicking my ass, and the ass of my poor little muse._

_But without any further ado, I give you the second chapter. Please enjoy and comment, and thanks to the people who left reviews last time - you guys rock!_

o-o-o

_"The most powerful weapon in chess is to have the next move."_ - David Bronstein

o-o-o

**2. In Which Crowley Gets Kicked**

Aziraphale was reading the paper and nursing a cup of Earl Grey when Molly stumbled down the stairs the next morning, rubbing her eyes and practically swimming in one of Aziraphale's old nightshirts.

"Good morning," Aziraphale greeted with a smile, folding the paper and reaching for another mug. "Would you like some tea?"

"Juice, please," Molly said through a yawn.

"Coming right up. I assume orange is okay?"

Molly nodded and sat in one of the chairs around Aziraphale's rickety old table, letting her feet swing. She looked out the window and squinted against the sunlight.

"What time is it?" she asked, accepting a tall glass of juice.

"A little after nine," Aziraphale said. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine." Molly sipped her juice, careful not to spill on Aziraphale's nightshirt. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"I, er, crashed on the couch down here."

"Oh."

"Would you like some breakfast?"

Molly's face brightened at the prospect, and she announced that she would love some eggs, please.

While Aziraphale cooked, Molly scanned the paper, an odd pastime for an eight year-old. Aziraphale seemed to notice this and he joined her at the table while eggs sizzled in the skillet.

"See anything interesting?" he asked.

"No," Molly said, "it's all about the economy and stuff."

"Too dull?"

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the sizzling of eggs.

"Last night you promised me that you would talk if I let you stay here," Aziraphale said finally, his pale eyes serious. "I'd like a few explanations, Molly."

Molly sighed and pushed the paper away, but said nothing. Aziraphale eventually had to get up and flip the eggs so they didn't burn, and it was at that moment that the little girl spoke.

"I know what those men were," she said quietly.

Aziraphale froze in the act of flipping the second egg.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"The men who were chasing me last night. They were demons."

Aziraphale turned to face her, but she was staring down into her glass of juice. Her legs had stopped swinging, and her little hands were clenched under the table.

"I've always been able to see them. They aren't human, so they must be demons." She glanced up at Aziraphale, her brown eyes surprisingly fierce for one so young. "You could tell, too, couldn't you?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said softly.

"How long have you been able to see them?" Molly asked.

"Well, it's… different for me."

"How so?"

"I…"

Aziraphale hesitated for only a moment. Then he sighed, plopped the cooked eggs onto a plate and carried them over to the table, taking the seat opposite Molly.

"First of all, can you see anything different about _me_?" he asked. Molly took a bite of egg, but narrowed her eyes in concentration as she stared at him.

"You gwow," she said through her mouthful, "but mot wike 'emons." She swallowed. "It's a brighter glow, and more comforting. But I don't know why."

Aziraphale smiled and said, "It's because I'm an angel, Molly."

Molly gaped, her fork stuck halfway between the plate and her mouth.

"No way," she said. Aziraphale shrugged. Molly broke into a wide smile. "I knew it!" she said. "You _can_ protect me from those demons!"

"I will do what I can," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly weary, "but I'm going to need some explanations from you first. So…" He leaned toward her over the table, pale eyes twinkling. "Start talking."

o-o-o

Crowley was in a slight panic.

He kept edging toward the telephone, then picking it up, staring at it, and putting it down again. It was growing tiresome. He knew he should ring Aziraphale, but at the same time he wasn't sure whether or not this confrontation would be better off done in person.

Either way, it was rude to come by unannounced, so he picked up the phone.

But when had he started caring about being rude? The phone went down again.

Crowley seethed and came quite close to tearing out his hair.

It was all that bastard Amon's fault! He just _had_ to come into Crowley's apartment and tell him things and get him involved. Crowley didn't quite enjoy being involved, especially when – he shuddered – Raum was in charge.

Raum.

That demon was a problem.

And that problem was apparently intending to force Crowley to get this stupid little girl. From _Aziraphale_. Using _force_, if necessary. Crowley couldn't even remember the last time he had used force against Aziraphale. (Possibly last month, when Crowley had threatened to shove Azirphale into the duck pond if he wouldn't treat him to lunch, but that had never actually come to pass; Aziraphale had eventually caved.)

He had to contact Aziraphale before the official order came through, and warn him that if he was housing the girl he should be rid of her as soon as divinely possible. Otherwise Crowley would be forced to go after her himself, and if _he_ refused, then the job would be passed on to someone with much less sympathy for the angel.

And Crowley couldn't let that happen.

o-o-o

Adam was lost.

He checked the map again, rather listlessly, and whistled for his little mutt to follow him. The last time he had seen a sign it had said something about Finsbury, so as long as he was there, his destination lay to the… south? West? Whichever. But even if he knew _that_, how was he supposed to tell directions? And why were there so many streets that weren't listed on this map?

Adam crumpled up the map and chucked it into a waste bin. He looked up at the street sign above his head, which said Spencer St.

"Take me to Soho," he ordered the sidewalk, then took a purposeful step forward, turned the corner, and found himself on a small street that housed a bookshop, among other things.

Adam headed straight for this shop, whistling again to make sure Dog was still with him. The little mutt trotted at his feet, tongue lolling and one ear inside out, as always.

The door – despite bearing a _CLOSED_ sign in the front window – was tugged open before Adam could even knock, and a small girl with dark curls and wide brown eyes stared up at him.

"Mr. Fell said you can come in," she said, "but he isn't to be disturbed."

"Er, okay," Adam said, slightly baffled, as he stepped around the little girl into the shop. Dog slinked in behind him. "And you are…?"

"My name is Molly. I'm helping Mr. Fell around the shop," the girl pronounced, thrusting her chest out proudly.

"Right." Adam looked around the dusty old bookshop, searching for any sign of the angel. "Any idea when I'll be able to talk to him?"

"He's on a very important phone call. I'm afraid it might be a while. Would you like some tea?"

Adam stared hard at the little girl.

"How old are you?" he demanded.

"Eight."

"And you're asking me if I would like _tea_?"

Molly blinked in confusion. "I'm only being polite."

"Hell," Adam said, shaking his head. "Aziraphale's already rubbed off on you, hasn't he?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind." Adam hopped onto a tall stool in front of the register and thrust out his hand, which Molly stared at for a moment before realizing she was supposed to shake it. "I'm Adam," he said. "And this is Dog."

"Hello." Molly stooped to shake Dog's paw, which he proffered obediently. She giggled and scratched him behind the ears, making his little tail thump.

"How long have you been working here?" Adam asked. He had always been under the impression that Aziraphale preferred to work in his shop alone. It gave the angel ample time to read in the back room and to close the shop at random intervals to discourage patrons from entering.

"Mr. Fell saved me last night so I've been staying here," Molly said matter-of-factly, still lavishing attention on Dog. Adam frowned.

"He saved you?"

"Yeah." Molly looked up at Adam. "From demons."

"Demons," Adam said dryly.

"Yep."

"Huh."

"And now he's talking to his boss about something. I don't know what, though."

Adam said nothing, just watched Dog roll over and let Molly tickle his belly. Adam knew who Aziraphale's "boss" was. He wondered vaguely how the conversation was going.

o-o-o

It was not going very well at all. In the next room, Aziraphale was growing frustrated with his superiors. He even thought he could feel a headache coming on, something which hadn't occurred since before the Apocalypse That Never Was.

"Sorry," he said. "But _why_ is Molly in danger?"

A well-educated voice replied, "I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"It's not something you need to know."

"So… What exactly am I supposed to do?"

"Protect her," the voice said. "But be warned. Demons will come after her in great numbers, and with great power. We will send down a guardian for you if need be, but for now I can sense that you are well-protected."

Aziraphale frowned, trying to think of what in his life could possibly be thought of as protective.

"Right," Aziraphale said. "Well. I'll just keep her here then, shall I?"

"Yes. Someone will come for her in three days' time. At that point you will be relieved of your duties and possibly rewarded."

"Ah."

"Good luck, Aziraphale," said the voice, and the connection was broken.

Aziraphale watched as one of the candle flames sputtered and nearly went out.

"Bugger," he said.

He turned, leaving the chalk circle, and stepped over to his telephone, which was blinking at him. He had three messages, apparently all from Crowley. With a sigh, Aziraphale cut off the last of Crowley's messages just before the bad language started and trudged back toward the front of the shop.

He had some serious thinking to do.

o-o-o

"Something's wrong."

Anathema blinked and looked up from her coffee to see her husband narrowing his eyes at her.

"Huh?" she said intelligently.

"Something's bothering you. You've been in a daze all morning," Newt said, taking a seat next to her. "What's wrong?"

"I feel… strange," Anathema said finally, staring down at her coffee again.

"Strange as in… dizzy?"

"No."

"Feverish?"

"No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

"Horny?"

"_Newt_."

"Well, you're being vague."

"Look, it's no big deal!" Anathema burst, rising to her feet and starting to pace. "It's just…" She threw a helpless look at Newt. "I feel like I need to read Agnes' new prophecies."

Newt tapped his fingers on the table and chewed his lip a bit, but said nothing.

"It started last night," Anathema hurried to explain. "I feel like something big is happening, and I should know about it. I should be able to do something, you know? Like last time."

"Last time?"

"Armageddon, Newt."

"Ah."

He lapsed into silence again, apparently thinking, and Anathema thought she might explode, but just before she was about to start rambling again, Newt said, "Read them."

Anathema blinked. "Really?"

"Sure." Newt half-smiled up at her. "If it'll make you feel better."

"But Newt –"

"Just because you read them doesn't mean you're going to go back to living your life by them, right?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"Anathema." Newt stood and placed his hands on her shoulders with a smile. "Read them."

Anathema sighed, and mumbled that she would be right back. She left the kitchen calmly enough but broke into a light jog as soon as she was out of Newt's sight. She knew that he had always disapproved of the idea of her reading the prophecies and living her life solely by what they said, so she had a feeling his support would be short-lived, but as long as she had it she _needed_ to read the prophecies. She had a feeling Agnes wanted her to.

The chest was where it had been for the past eight years, buried under clothes and coats that had fallen off their hangers to land in a sad, forgotten pile on the bottom of the closet. Anathema cleared the clothes away and pulled the chest out, lifting off the lid.

There it was: _Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com: Ye Saga Continuef!_

It was a bit dustier than the first time she had seen it, but it looked basically the same. Anathema picked it up reverently and clutched it to her chest before laying it in her lap and opening to the first page.

That was when the first crow slammed into the window, and chaos followed soon after.

o-o-o

Hell was bustling.

Amon marched through the masses of tortured souls, determinedly ignoring their screams with practiced ease. He kept fidgeting with the lapels of his dark suit, a necessity when meeting with his boss, one of the most formal and frightening Earls of Hell. The suit's material was already clinging to his broad, sweaty shoulders, and the pants were sufficiently wrinkled, but Amon figured it was the thought that counted. How could anyone be expected to look meticulously put together after traipsing across the majority of the Underworld to get to a meeting?

He approached the Earl's headquarters at a trot – he was a little late – and was unsurprised to see two lower-ranked demons flanking the doors. He grinned fiercely at them, showing off his bright canines.

"Foras, Surgat," he rumbled. "Does this mean you are still in Raum's favor?"

The two demons glowered at him. One glance at them was enough to tell anyone that they were clearly _not_ being favored; their faces were covered in cuts and bruises and dried blood, evidence of their punishment for being unable to capture the girl.

"Aw, stuff it," Surgat – always the more vocal one – spat. "You're late as it is."

"I know, I know," Amon chuckled. He entered headquarters feeling much lighter than he had before. It felt good to know that those two had been punished. Maybe that meant Raum's love of violence would be temporarily sated and Amon could get off easy…

The doors leading to Raum's inner sanctuary were tall and black, and intricately carved with designs that resembled feathers. Amon paused outside them, steeling himself.

_Amon. Please come in._

Amon froze; the velvety voice seemed to come out of the very walls.

The doors opened of their own accord, and Amon had no choice but to walk through them and into Raum's sanctuary.

The first thing he noticed was the complete lack of ceiling. Instead, there were levels upon levels of dark wooden rafters, spiraling up into infinity, each acting as a roost for the largest, blackest, quietest crows Amon had ever seen. The only noise they made was the shifting of feathers and talons as they arranged themselves to better stare down at him in a very menacing manner.

"Amon," a voice breathed – the same voice from the hallway, only this time it had a visible origin in the form of a tall, slim shadow across the room. Amon bowed to the shadow.

"My lord," he said.

"You have located the girl."

It wasn't a question. Amon nodded and gulped.

"Yes, lord. She is with an angel. In London."

"And this angel. He is powerful?"

"I do not believe so, lord, but we are being cautious. I have contacted the demon Crawly, who seems to know much of the angel. I have faith that he will help us."

"Is that so?" Raum's calm skepticism sent a shiver down Amon's spine.

"Yes, lord," Amon whispered.

"… Very well. I will take your word, for now." Raum paused and Amon had a fleeting hope that he might be dismissed sooner than expected, but then the Earl continued. "You think this Crawly will be useful?"

"I do, lord."

"Why is this? He is acquainted with the angel. What if he is a traitor?"

"I believe he can be… manipulated."

Even from across the room, Amon could sense Raum's interest, could see his slitted red eyes narrow.

"How so?"

Amon had to grin; this was what he had come for. He had a couple ideas, and he knew he would gain the Earl's favor for them.

"I have had some thoughts, lord. If it pleases, I could tell them to you now."

Raum did not reply for an entire minute, and Amon started to sweat, but the dark shadow finally inclined its head.

"Tell me."

o-o-o

Crowley parked the Bentley illegally across the street from Aziraphale's bookshop and stepped out into the morning sun, sunglasses flashing. He adjusted his dark suit and smoothed back his hair before striding across the street.

The sign in the shop's window said _CLOSED_, but that did nothing to deter him. He tried the handle only to find it was locked, and then – figuring Aziraphale would disapprove of him bashing in yet another door (even though the first four times had been completely necessary) – balled his hand into a tight fist and rapped smartly on the window.

Voices came from inside (this in itself being odd, as Aziraphale rarely had visitors, and the most common of these was standing outside the door), followed by some rummaging and the distinct sound of a key being turned in the lock.

The door swung open to reveal the angel, looking rather nervous and wielding a nasty-looking bat.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Oh. It's you," Aziraphale said, lowering the bat.

"That's all the greeting I get?" Crowley asked. "An unenthusiastic 'oh it's you'? And put that down. It's dangerous."

"What do you want, Crowley?"

"Why haven't you answered any of my calls?

"I've been busy."

"So I've heard. Can I come in?"

"Not now."

"Fine, then you come out. I need to talk to you."

"Crowley, I can't leave right now."

"Why not?"

"I have something I need to take care of."

"Like what?"

"Like –"

"AWAY FROM MY ANGEL, FOUL DEMON!" A swift kick connected heavily with Crowley's shin.

"- well, that."

"SON OF A –" (The next words to flow out of Crowley's mouth were far too foul for the author to write, and not even of this language.)

"Sorry, Crowley. I was supposed to be watching her," Adam said, coming up from behind the girl and swinging her easily into his arms.

"Damn it, Adam!" Crowley hissed, rubbing his leg. "That hurt!"

"Don't yell at me, you old snake," Adam retorted with a glare. "I didn't kick you."

"That's enough, you two," Aziraphale said sternly. Adam "hmph"-ed and Crowley muttered something under his breath about pretentious twats, but the argument subsided.

"Wait," Molly said from Adam's arms, "you _know_ this demon?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "His name is Crowley. He's an old acquaintance of mine."

Said acquaintance glared at the little girl through his dark glasses and demanded, "And who are you?"

"My name is Molly, and I don't approve of you being here."

Adam snickered.

"Don't worry, Molly," Aziraphale said soothingly, choosing to ignore the teenager. "We can trust Crowley."

Crowley looked uncomfortable for a moment after this statement. Adam was the only one to catch it; he narrowed his eyes at the demon, but said nothing.

"Aziraphale, I really need to talk to you," Crowley said quietly.

"If it's about Molly, then don't bother," Aziraphale sighed. "We already know demons are after her."

"Oh." Crowley glanced at the little girl, and his insides turned to ice. A part of him had actually been hoping Amon had been wrong, and that the child was somewhere else entirely.

But this was the girl, and Aziraphale was the angel.

And Crowley was going to have to betray them both.

o-o-o

_**A/N:** I know this chapter jumped around a lot, but there are a lot of characters to cover, people! Please leave some feedback - I really appreciate it! Thanks!_


	3. In Which Many Suspicions Are Had

_**Author's Note:** I apologize profusely for the length of time you guys had to wait for this update, and I sincerely hope it's worth it! I had a lot of trouble writing this due to all of my classes and essays and blah, but now it's finals time and I found time to pound out a chapter so yay!_

_I don't have much to say besides that, so please just read and review. Thank you!_

o-o-o

_"The pawns are the soul of the game." - Francois Andre Danican Philidor_

o-o-o

**3. In Which Many Suspicions Are Had**

Crowley refused to turn around.

He could feel Aziraphale's gaze following him around the shop, trying to figure out why he was acting so dodgy. Crowley had seen the angel's "I-know-you-are-hiding-something-so-just-look-at-me-already" look plenty of times before. It usually came right before he did something particularly demon-like.

So instead of facing the angel and the questions that would surely follow, Crowley perused the dusty shelves of the bookshop, scanning the titles without actually reading them. He could hear little Molly yammering away from her perch on the front counter, her mood having greatly improved after Aziraphale had assured her that Crowley was harmless. It was at that point that the demon had decided to duck into the shop's labyrinthine aisles in order to avoid Aziraphale's perceptive eyes and Adam's accusations.

"Crowley."

Speak of the son of the Devil.

Crowley grunted to let Adam know he was listening but did not face him.

"What's with you today?" the teenager demanded, crossing his arms.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crowley said.

"You're avoiding Az."

"I'm not avoiding him," Crowley said. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, ducking between stacks of books," Adam retorted. "Why did you come over here if you weren't planning to talk to him?"

Crowley said nothing, and Adam narrowed his eyes.

"You're hiding something," he said. "And I'm going to –"

"ADAM!" Molly barreled into the boy's legs, nearly toppling him over. "Mr. Fell wants to know if you're staying for lunch."

"Er," Adam said, blinking. "I'm not sure, I –"

"I'm going to head out," Crowley said abruptly, sweeping past Adam and the girl clinging to his legs. "Things to do, people to tempt."

"Crowley."

The demon couldn't help but pause at that voice, one hand on the door. He glanced over his shoulder to see Aziraphale looking at him rather helplessly. Crowley felt his throat tighten; he hated seeing the angel like that.

"What?" he asked.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He gave a tight-lipped smile.

"Keep in touch, okay?"

"… Sure."

Crowley crossed the street and willed the bright pink ticket away from his windshield before sliding into the leather seat of his beloved Bentley and accelerating out of the illegal parking spot as fast as demonly possible. As soon as he was out of sight of the bookshop, he groaned and rested his head against the steering wheel.

He had to get his mind off the girl, off Aziraphale, and off the mission he hadn't even been assigned yet. He reached over and fumbled around in the glove compartment for some music. Unsurprisingly, all he found was a tape labeled Queen's Greatest Hits, but he shoved it into the player anyway. Freddie Mercury had only just begun declaring that the show must go on when a deep, rumbling voice took over.

_CRAWLY._

Crowley barely managed to suppress a shiver of foreboding. He knew that voice. He had been waiting for it all morning.

"Amon," he said dryly. "It's been a while."

_PLEASE BE SERIOUS. RAUM HAS A VERY IMPORTANT JOB FOR YOU._

"Uh-huh. And that would be…?"

_DON'T PATRONIZE ME, CRAWLY. YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS._

"Ah," Crowley said, paling. "That."

_YOU _HAVE _TO DO THIS, CRAWLY. RAUM NEEDS THAT GIRL._

"I understand, but are you sure –"

_SHUT UP, CRAWLY._

"Fine."

_RAUM TOLD ME TO TELL YOU THAT HE IS WILLING TO BE KIND. IF YOU BRING THE GIRL TO HIM WITHIN TWO DAYS, HE WILL SPARE THE LIFE OF YOUR LITTLE ANGEL. SHOULD YOU FAIL, HE WILL KILL YOU BOTH. SLOWLY. AND PAINFULLY._

Crowley stared at the road before him, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of his heart beating in his throat.

_DO YOU UNDERSTAND, CRAWLY?_

"Yes," Crowley whispered.

_GOOD. SORRY YOU GOT SADDLED WITH THIS, MATE. OH, AND WE HAVEN'T DISCUSSED THIS PLAN WITH THE OTHERS YET, SO I WOULD TURN BACK NOW IF YOU WANT TO SAVE YOUR ANGEL AND CLAIM THE GIRL YOURSELF. GOOD LUCK, CRAWLY._

And then Freddie Mercury's dulcet tones were back, just as suddenly as they had left. Something fluttered out of the tape player to settle on the passenger seat and Crowley grabbed it reflexively. It was a solitary, jet-black feather. A reminder. Crowley stared at it, ashen-faced.

"Damn," he muttered, and turned the music up as loud as it would go.

"_Inside my heart is breaking, my make-up may be flaking, but my smile still stays on…_"

o-o-o

Amon cut off the transmission and sat back in his chair with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And so our first pawn moves into place," a velvety voice announced to his empty office. Amon startled and looked up just in time to watch an enormous and previously-unnoticed crow spread its wings and soar out the open door. The large demon stormed up from his desk and slammed the door shut with a deep-throated growl. He slumped against the darkened wood and closed his eyes.

Three days of working for that creepy Earl, and already he craved a vacation.

o-o-o

Adam excused himself shortly after Crowley left, insisting he had some errands to run while he was in the city. Molly was sad to see him go, but cheered up when he assured her he would be back later. Once outside, with Dog at his heels, he flipped open his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts, searching for a number he hadn't dialed for at least a year. He hovered over the name for only a second before pressing send.

Something had called Adam to London, and if anyone would be able to tell him what it was, it would be her.

o-o-o

Behind him, in a shadowed alleyway, a dark figure nudged his dozing companion and said, "He's gone. Let's go."

The pair slunk deeper into the shadows and vanished without a trace.

o-o-o

The crows surrounded the little cottage, cawing and clawing and flapping and shedding black-as-night feathers all around. Anathema scooped up the prophecies and got as far from the windows as she could, her eyes wide and fixed on the mass of birds outside the glass. She backed into the door and fumbled for the handle, unwilling to take her eyes off the crows. The door swung open behind her and she stumbled through and ran straight into Newt.

"Jesus!" she gasped. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Do what?" Newt asked. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know, but there are crows at the window and I think they're going to get in soon so we should really –"

"Hold on," Newt interrupted. "Crows?"

"Yes, _crows_. You don't hear them?"

Newt did hear them. And a quick glance over Anathema's shoulder allowed him to see them, as well. There must have been thousands, and the clamor they made as they tried to get into the house was deafening.

"What should we do?" Newt yelled over the noise, throwing a protective arm around his wife's shoulders and dragging her further into the windowless hall.

"Make a run for it?"

"Through the crazy birds?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Well, no, but –"

_BRRRRRRRRRING._

All noise stopped. Newt and Anathema froze, staring at each other with wide and frightened eyes. There was a beat of terrible silence, and then –

_BRRRRRRRRRING._

"Should – should we answer it?" Newt hissed.

"Um…" Anathema said. "Yes?"

_BRRRRRRRRRING._

Newt snuck down the hall and entered the kitchen at a crouch, keeping his eyes on the windows. There was no sign of the crows outside, not even a stray feather. Even so, he kept low as he made his way to the phone, and answered it in the middle of the next ring.

"Hello?" he whispered.

"_Hey, Mr. Pulsifer. Why are you whispering?_"

"Uh, hey, Adam. No reason, really. What's up?"

"I_s Anathema there? It's sort of an emergency._"

"Er. Yes. Hold on a minute." Newt covered the mouthpiece and gestured for his wife, who was watching him from the kitchen door, to come to the phone. She hurried over, still clutching the prophecies to her chest, and Newt whispered, "It's Adam Young." Anathema put the phone to her ear.

"What is it, Adam?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"_I need a favor. Can you look up a prophecy for me?_"

"I can try," Anathema said, her eyes glued to the windows. The sudden lack of birds was really starting to creep her out. "But I don't have these prophecies all organized. It might take a while. Why do you ask?"

"_Something's going on in London, and I think Crowley and Aziraphale are in the middle of it._"

"Which means…?"

"_It's probably apocalyptic._"

"Oh."

"_Yeah._"

"Look, I'll see what I can do, Adam, but I can't promise anything. I haven't even so much as glanced at the new prophecies yet."

"_That's fine. I appreciate your help._"

"No problem. I'll be in touch."

"_Thanks._"

Anathema placed the phone back in its holder and looked at Newt, who had moved over to the window and was trying to get a look at the sky above their house.

"Newt."

"They're gone." Newt shook his head, the picture of disbelief. "They're just… gone. What the hell is up with that?"

"Newt."

"I mean, there were _thousands_! And now they're –"

"Newt!"

"What?" Newt spun to face Anathema. She half-smiled, dug her nails into the thick binding of the prophecies and said, "Let's go to London."

o-o-o

Aziraphale kept his eyes on the papers all morning. He figured someone would want to claim Molly, even if she was living in a foster home, but there were no missing child ads in any of the local papers.

"What are your foster-parents' names?" he asked as they prepared for lunch. Molly sat on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs blissfully.

"Paul and Joan. Can we have strawberries?" Molly asked.

"And their last name?" Aziraphale pressed, searching in the refrigerator for the strawberries. Molly pouted.

"Why, are you going to call them?"

Aziraphale smiled at her as he carried the bowl of strawberries into the back room where they had set up their lunch.

"No, I'm just curious. You're going to stay here with me for a while, okay?"

"Okay!" Molly bounced into the back room and grabbed for a berry.

Aziraphale wished he felt as optimistic. The vagueness of the Metatron's warnings had been troubling, but the Metatron prided himself on being vague and troubling, so that wasn't saying much. It was nothing compared to Crowley's recent odd behavior. The demon only acted that suspicious when he had a terrible secret, and Aziraphale had a feeling it had something to do with Molly.

But there was nothing he could do about Crowley at the moment, so Aziraphale resolved to just ring the demon later that day and interrogate him then.

Something thumped near the back door and Aziraphale froze, the Metatron's warnings fresh in his mind. Molly paused with a strawberry halfway to her lips.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

Aziraphale motioned for her to be quiet and waited for the sound to come again, but there was only silence.

"Nothing," he said eventually with a slight shake of his head. "I just could've sworn I heard –"

The back door burst open, cutting off whatever it was he thought he had heard. Two men stormed into the room, dressed all in black. Molly gasped when she saw them; they were the same demons who had chased her two nights ago.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet and grabbed the little girl, shoving her behind the sofa before taking a defensive stance in front of the two intruders. His pale blue eyes glinted dangerously.

"What do you want?" he snapped, allowing some divine wrath to enter his voice. The smaller of the two men shuddered slightly, but the larger remained unfazed. He stepped forward and held out one monstrous hand.

"Give us the girl."

"Why?"

The large man seemed thrown for a moment, as though that were the last thing he expected the angel to say.

"Because I said so!" he barked, deep down wishing he had something better to say. The smaller man snorted at his companion's trouble.

"Nice one, Foras," he said, clapping the large man on the shoulder before turning to face Aziraphale. "Now really, angel. We ain't got all day. Hand over the girl."

"Tell me why you want her," Aziraphale insisted, glaring. The smaller man smiled.

"Will ya fork her over if I do?"

"Probably not."

The small man shrugged.

"Then why should we bother?" He nodded at his companion. "Get her."

The big man lurched forward and Aziraphale moved to intercept him, jaw set and ready to fight. A shriek from behind distracted him momentarily, and in that moment the smaller man appeared behind the angel and dealt him a deafening blow to the back of the head. Aziraphale dropped like a rock.

"MR. FELL!" Molly screamed, scrambling out from behind the couch and crawling to the angel's side. She shook him roughly, trying to rouse him. "MR. FELL! WAKE UP! PLEASE, MR. FELL! _MR. FELL!_"

"Grab her and let's go," the smaller man said with a malicious smile. The larger man stooped to grab Molly, but she would have none of it. She threw her arms around Aziraphale's neck, buried her face in his chest, and refused to let go.

"Oh, for the love of…" the larger man cursed. He started to pry her off but she growled and bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. The man jumped back with a cry.

"What now?" the smaller man snapped.

"She _bit_ me!"

"You're joking, right? She's, like, _ten_, ya pathetic excuse for a demon. Now if she won't let go, then just grab 'em _both_ and let's get the Hell outta here."

The bell from the shop tinkled merrily, announcing the arrival of a customer, and both men froze.

"Hello? Aziraphale?"

Molly gasped and looked up.

"MR. CROWLEY COME QUICK!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "THEY HURT MR. FELL AND THEY WANT TO TAKE ME AND I NEED YOUR HELP PLEASE COME QUICK!"

"Shit! Did she say Crowley?" the smaller man asked, poised to bolt. "What the Hell is he doin' here?" The larger man was about to answer when the door connecting the back room to the shop suddenly slammed open, revealing a tall dark-haired man in a black suit, sunglasses removed and yellow eyes gleaming wickedly.

"I believe she _did_ say 'Crowley'," Crowley said with a grin, bearing sharp teeth. "How are you doing, Foras, Surgat?"

"Not too shabby," the smaller man said, barely able to contain his trembling. "W-we was just taking care of some stuff. We didn't know you was gonna be –"

"I'm sorry, Surgat, but I just don't care," Crowley drawled. "Now I assume you were leaving?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, boss, but… could we just get that girl before we go?" Surgat asked, wringing his hands nervously. Crowley looked down at Molly for the first time and cocked an eyebrow.

"This girl?"

"Yeah."

"Hm… I'm going to have to say no."

"But –"

"I believe you were _leaving_, boys."

The two men looked like they were going to argue some more, but Crowley flicked his right hand and set both of their trousers on fire before they could even get a word out. They were out the door in less than a second.

"Pathetic excuses for demons," Crowley muttered to himself. He sighed and knelt beside Molly, replacing his sunglasses. "Are you all right?" Molly nodded.

"Yes, but Mr. Fell –"

"He'll be fine." Crowley shooed the girl off and lifted the angel's head, gingerly fingering the knot at the base of Aziraphale's skull. It would leave a bruise, and a fierce headache, but it wasn't bleeding. Crowley slid one arm under the angel's back and the other beneath his legs, rising with a slight groan.

"You're sure?" Molly asked, watching the demon carefully as he lowered Aziraphale onto the sofa.

"Positive," Crowley said, leaning down to smooth some of the angel's soft blond hair out of his face. "He'll be up and kicking in no time."

He was about to straighten when small fingers curled around his sunglasses and pulled them gently from his face. Crowley froze, his gaze automatically landing on Molly's pale face. Wide brown eyes locked on his, and Crowley noticed her trembling.

"Are you going to try to take me, too?" she asked in a small voice. Crowley hesitated. He glanced down at Aziraphale, then back at Molly and the small, shaking hand that held his sunglasses. Then he sighed, closed his amber eyes, and said, "No."

o-o-o

It was bright in Heaven, and very warm, but the cherub Jophiel did not cower as he bowed before the seat of his Master, ready to accept his charge.

"One of your own has been directly attacked while carrying out his divine mission," the Metatron began in a rather haughty voice, hidden behind a cloud of light and ether. "The protection of the Antichrist has proved unreliable, so I now send you, Jophiel, to serve and protect the angel Aziraphale until he is free of his charge." The Metatron held out one gleaming hand over the cherub's head. "Go with God."

"Yes, Lord," Jophiel said with a final bow, then spread his wings and arms and stood, ready to be given a mortal corporation.

o-o-o

It was dark by the time Aziraphale opened his eyes. There was a small shape curled against his side, cutting off the circulation to his right hand, and it only took him about a minute of foggy thought to realize that it was Molly, and from there to draw the conclusion that she had not, in fact, been kidnapped. Curious as to how that could possibly be true, he lifted his head with a wince in order to get his bearings.

"You shouldn't move so much."

Aziraphale whipped his head around to face the speaker and was forced to bite back a pained cry. He made a mental note not to do that again. Once his vision cleared, he saw something flash in the corner of the room, like the reflection of moonlight on sunglasses. Aziraphale half-smiled.

"Don't be so dramatic, my dear," he said, laying his head back and closing his eyes. "I assume I have you to thank for Molly still being here?" Crowley stepped out of the shadows, hands stuffed in his pockets and looking rather abashed.

"Yes," he said. "She wouldn't let me put her to bed. Insisted on staying here with you. It's kind of disturbing, actually, how much she seems to like you." Aziraphale smiled.

"Almost as disturbing as how much _you_ like me," he quipped. The expected sarcastic reply never came, and Aziraphale frowned and opened his eyes, focusing on the demon standing over him as best he could despite his throbbing head.

"What's wrong, Crowley?" he asked softly.

Crowley removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders were slumped, his expression weary.

"Angel…" he murmured. "We need to talk."

o-o-o

_**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews are made of love and win._


	4. In Which A Plan Is Contrived

_**Author's Note:**__ At last, Chapter 4 is here! I wrote this one rather quickly and haven't had much time to edit it, so if there are any silly errors, I apologize ahead of time._

_I don't have much else to say, so please just read and enjoy and remember to leave some feedback - I love hearing from all of you! Thanks!_

o-o-o

_"The beauty of a move lies not in its appearance but in the thought behind it."_ - Aaron Nimzovich

o-o-o

**4. In Which a Plan Is Contrived**

Aziraphale ran a weary hand through his hair as he tried to absorb what Crowley had just told him.

"So… _you're_ the demon who's after Molly?" he asked.

"That is correct."

"And if you do not deliver her to your superior demon friend –"

"Not friend," Crowley interrupted. "Boss. Evil demon boss."

"– sorry, evil demon boss, then he's going to kill the both of us?"

"Yes, sir."

"But if you _do_ deliver Molly, then…"

"We both get to live, yes."

"Huh." Aziraphale looked down at the snoozing little girl in his lap and placed a hand on her brown curls. "That's unfortunate."

Crowley looked up from the book he had been flipping through to shoot Aziraphale an incredulous glance over his sunglasses. "You don't say," he said.

"Why do you suppose they want her?" Aziraphale asked.

"Your people didn't tell you anything?"

"No," Aziraphale said. "They just told me to protect her for three days until someone came to relieve me of my charge. What about your people?"

"Are you kidding? I don't get details, just orders." Crowley tossed the book onto a nearby table and stretched lazily. He felt a lot better not keeping secrets from Aziraphale. "So what do we do?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Do?"

"Well, we need a plan, don't we?"

"I guess so."

"Any thoughts?"

"Not at the present."

Crowley sighed and rubbed the back of his head, trying to remember the last time he had slept.

"Crowley."

"Hm?"

"Thank you," Aziraphale said with a warm smile. "For telling me."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably and muttered some form of assent, then rose to his feet and edged toward the door. "I'm going to try and get some sleep. You mind if I use your bed?"

"Of course not. But may I remind you that you don't actually _need_ slee –"

"_I_ do," Crowley interrupted, and was about to leave the room when something bright and very solid thumped him in the chest and sent him sprawling. He vaguely heard Aziraphale yell his name and Molly start awake with a little cry, but he was too discombobulated to properly register much else because whatever had thumped him had quite thoroughly managed to knock all of the air out of his lungs. Even though he did not particularly require said air, the abrupt loss of it still made it a trifle hard to concentrate.

When he had sufficiently blinked all of the stars from his vision, Crowley looked up to see a tall, glowing figure standing over him, pinning him with a glare full of righteous fury.

"What business have you here, demon?" the figure boomed in a voice that made Crowley's ears throb.

"Who wants to know?" Crowley snapped back, not taking well to this undeserved abuse.

"I am called Jophiel, and I was sent here to guard the angel Aziraphale while he carries out his divine charge," the figure announced.

"Oh, good Lord," Aziraphale muttered from somewhere behind the glowing figure.

"Well, would you mind turning down your glow? You're hurting my eyes," Crowley said, regaining his feet and brushing some dust off of his suit jacket. The angel – Jophiel – narrowed his eyes.

"Why do you not cower from me, demon?" he demanded.

"Gee, I don't know," Crowley said, feigning surprise. "Maybe because I'm not the bad guy here?"

Jophiel's eyes got – if possible – even narrower.

"That does not make sense."

Aziraphale stepped up and placed a hand on the new angel's arm.

"He's telling the truth, Jophiel. Let him be."

Jophiel looked at the hand on his arm, then at Aziraphale, and then down at Molly, who was peeking around Aziraphale's legs. The taller angel's glowing brow furrowed.

"This demon does not want the girl?" he asked.

"No," Aziraphale said. "He's here to help."

Jophiel took a moment to mull that over and Crowley could have sworn he could hear the gears turning in the angel's head.

"Fine," he said at last. "I will not destroy him, but he must leave."

"What? Why?" Crowley spluttered.

"You are a demon, and therefore untrustworthy, no matter what the angel Aziraphale says. I cannot allow you to be near my charge."

"What, so you're his chaperone now?" Crowley spat, fuming.

"Jophiel, just wait –" Aziraphale began, but Jophiel stepped in front of him, focusing his fury on Crowley once again.

"Begone, demon," he said.

"You can't be serious," said Crowley.

"You are a demon, and therefore untrustworthy," Jophiel repeated, is voice ripe with divine wrath. "Now go."

Aziraphale grabbed the angel's arm again. "Jophiel, I just need to speak with him for a second, so could you –"

"No." Jophiel fixed Aziraphale with a stern look. "He is a demon, and therefore untrustworthy."

"Yes. I get that. But right now we have very important –"

"I cannot allow him to be with you."

"But I –"

"No."

Aziraphale looked like he was about to explode, so Crowley decided to make his move. He ducked to the side and made a grab for his angel's right arm, but a great white wing buffeted him in the ribs (he thought he even felt a couple crack) and sent him reeling. The last thing he heard was Aziraphale groan, "Oh, for the love of –" before Jophiel whisked both him and Molly away, leaving behind an empty room and a very livid demon, who cursed fluently in quite a few languages before finishing with a very clear, very loud "BASTARD!"

o-o-o

Adam sat outside the little café, sipping his cola without tasting it. He stared past the busy traffic circling Trafalgar Square, past the lions of Nelson's Column, barely focusing on the steps of the National Gallery across the way. His mind was somewhere else completely, far from the bustling crowds passing on the sidewalk and the murmuring patrons of the café. Dog sat quietly at his feet, glaring at any pigeons that tried to come too close.

Adam thought of Molly. He thought of Aziraphale, and Crowley, and the unexplained call that had summoned him to London in the first place. He tried – and failed – to think of an explanation for this puzzle, and was only wrenched from his thoughts when a large tome dropped onto his table with a satisfying _whump_.

"So." Anathema Pulsifer slid into the seat opposite Adam and folded her hands primly on the large volume. "I've been looking at the prophecies, and from what I can tell, Agnes saw all of this coming."

"I'm not surprised," Adam said, nodding at Newt as the bespectacled man settled beside his wife, folding a newspaper into his lap.

"No, I mean this was _all_ supposed to happen," Anathema said. "As in, I turned to the exact page in the prophecies that told me what to do. There are _thousands_ of prophecies in here, Adam. Think about that."

Adam did, and was impressed.

"Now look." Anathema flipped the manuscript open and slid a note card across the table to Adam.

"_When an octette of yeres_," he read, "_hath past synce the time of grate dystresse, the Adversarie shalt calleth from a Capytal towne wyth a dylemma moste grande, and thou shalt revele to Him these Prophecies of olde_." Adam looked up from the note card with a smirk. "The Adversary, eh? I like it."

"And that's not even the half of it," Anathema said, apparently rather excited. She slid him another note card. Adam read:

"_As to Bethlehem of olde a miracle cometh, so soone shalt appere another, who wyth innocence dyvine wilt bryng unto the worlde a feresome powere over wych goode and evylle shalt vye_."

Adam paused when he finished reading as the pieces began to come together in his mind.

"Like Bethlehem of old," he said, slowly, not quite ready to grasp the truth.

"And this." Anathema passed him yet another card. "It's about you." This one, Adam read to himself:

_The calle to destroye shalt be pryme in his minde, set there by the wyngs of crowes and a Fathere moste terryble, yet hope remaynes whylst his love for Man prevayles, and a Dark traytor shalt be his gyde._

Adam stared at the scribbled words, rather horrified. _A call to destroy?_ Was that what he had felt that night? Was he meant to _destroy_ Molly?

"Adam."

He looked up and met Anathema's concerned gaze.

"Would you mind telling us exactly what's going on?"

He did, sparing no detail. He explained the throbbing call that had summoned him to London in the first place, little Molly being saved from demons by Aziraphale, Crowley's suspicious behavior – everything.

"Wait. You said the little girl's name was Molly?" Newt asked once he had finished.

"Yes. Why?"

Newt did not answer immediately. He unfolded his newspaper, flipped it to the third page, and laid it out on the table over the prophecies, then tapped a finger at an article about halfway down the page.

"Is this your Molly?" he asked.

Adam tugged the paper toward himself. Sure enough, there was a little black and white picture of Molly, grinning inanely between a middle-aged couple who must have been her parents. The headline above the image read, "POLICE BEGIN INVESTIGATION IN HORRIFIC DOUBLE MURDER. SURVIVING DAUGHTER STILL MISSING." Adam closed his eyes, pained, and shoved the article away.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Is she with Aziraphale now?" Anathema asked, her voice gentle. Adam nodded. Anathema exchanged an anxious glance with her husband, then leaned over the table and said, "Adam, we should really let him know what we've found out. In all likelihood, Molly could be this generation's salvation, and that's _huge_. Aziraphale needs to know what he's protecting."

"Right." Adam sighed and got to his feet, dropping a couple of coins on the table for his cola and snapping his fingers at Dog. "Let's go."

o-o-o

It was true that Molly was still with Aziraphale, but they were currently a long way from the bookshop. Jophiel had spirited them to an undisclosed, forest-y location in order to keep them safe, and Aziraphale could not have been more incensed because of it.

"I am not kidding, Jophiel," he said for the thousandth time, struggling to keep his voice even. "I _need_ to speak with Crowley. It is of the utmost importance, I assure you."

"I do not care. I do not trust him," Jophiel said.

"_I_ trust him!"

"We should not endanger the child unnecessarily by allowing her near a demon."

"That demon _saved_ her, not four hours ago!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Now I want you to take us to somewhere that has a phone, and then to St. James Park. _Please._"

"No."

Aziraphale groaned and slumped down onto a nearby log, his head in his hands, frustrated beyond all belief. Molly crawled up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, eliciting a tiny smile from him.

"Jophiel," he said after a couple moments of silence. "_Please_. My meeting with Crowley is essential to protecting Molly. You would accompany us, of course, and I swear it won't take longer than ten minutes."

Jophiel hesitated, and Aziraphale held his breath. Then the guardian sighed and spread his great white wings, holding out his hands.

"Fine," he said. "Come. But if the demon makes one wrong move, I will kill him."

o-o-o

Crowley shivered slightly as he waited beside the pond in St. James Park, hunching down further into his dark jacket. His ribs still ached from being pummeled earlier, but he was far too eager to speak with Aziraphale to nurse the injuries. They would heal in a couple hours, anyway.

"You should have worn a warmer coat, my dear. You're trembling."

Crowley jumped and then winced as the movement jerked his ribs. He glared at Aziraphale, but there was no real menace in it.

"How'd you get away from your devoted guardian?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I didn't." Aziraphale nodded at something over Crowley's shoulder and the demon glanced behind him. Jophiel was standing beneath a nearby tree, straight and tall as an iron beam, with Molly holding his left hand. She waved at Crowley, grinning brightly, but Jophiel was not quite as amiable. His sharp eyes were fixed on Crowley, and they narrowed when he caught the demon's gaze. Crowley couldn't help a little shiver as he turned back to Aziraphale.

"I managed to convince him to let me see you," Aziraphale said, "so long as he has permission to kill you at the slightest hint of a threat."

"And were you planning on telling me about this at any point?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I didn't think it would be necessary."

Crowley couldn't help a little flush, still rather unused to the angel's implicit trust in him. He cleared his throat and turned toward the pond self-consciously, but not before he glimpsed Aziraphale's satisfied expression from the corner of his eye.

"So what did you want to talk about anyway?" he asked.

"I have a plan."

"Oh?"

"And I really need your help for it to work."

"You have it," Crowley said. "What are you thinking?"

"I can't tell you here," Aziraphale said. "It's too dangerous. I just had to let you know I had an idea."

Crowley frowned. "Then why would you want to meet me here?"

"It was convenient. And you're not the only person I'm meeting here today."

Crowley opened his mouth to ask whom Aziraphale was meeting, but the angel was already walking away from him around the pond, heading toward a tall man in a trench coat. Crowley gaped after him, then glanced back to see how Jophiel was taking this. The taller angel had tensed and was eyeing his charge severely, paying no attention to the little girl who was now bouncing on his shoulders. Apparently he had no idea about this mysterious arrangement either.

Crowley watched with narrow eyes as Aziraphale approached the man in the trench coat and shook his hand with a kind smile. The demon bristled when the other man tugged the angel – _his_ angel – into a swift embrace, and then the pair began to speak. Crowley huffed and shot a glance back at Jophiel, part of him hoping that the other angel would intercede, but the guardian actually looked relaxed and was chuckling at something Molly had just whispered in his ear. Crowley's brow furrowed and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyeing the rippling water before him.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye, a gleaming light on the water. Startled, he looked over at it, but all he saw was the reflection of Aziraphale and his trench-coated companion.

Crowley puzzled over this for a moment, and eventually wrote it off as a mere trick of the sun when he noticed that the man in the trench coat had vanished and Aziraphale was making his way back toward him.

"What was that about?" Crowley demanded. Aziraphale just smiled enigmatically and said, "I'll ring you later, my dear." Then he shook Crowley's hand, patted his shoulder, and headed back to his guardian, leaving Crowley to gape after him yet again.

Crowley clenched his fists as he watched Jophiel escort Aziraphale and Molly away again, and something crinkled in his right hand – the hand Aziraphale had held. Crowley blinked (a rare occurrence) and uncurled his fingers to reveal a tiny folded note. He glanced up, searching for Aziraphale, but the angel had already disappeared.

The note was brief, no more than eight words. Golden eyes widened as he read it. Then he crumpled the note into a ball and shoved it deep into his coat pocket before setting off at a brisk pace to his next line of business.

o-o-o

Amon was lounging at his desk cleaning gunk out from under his claws and most definitely _not_ hiding from Raum when his telephone rang. He just about jumped out of his skin at the sound and picked it up before the first ring had even died.

"What?" he growled.

"Amon?"

Amon frowned. "Who's this?"

"It's Crowley."

Amon smirked and reclined back in his chair, twisting the phone cord around a newly-cleaned claw.

"Crawly!" he gushed, being sure to use the demon's old name because he knew how much he hated it. "To what do I owe this great pleasure?"

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"Hm."

"It's rather important."

"All right, Crawly," Amon drawled. "Tell me what you need, and I'll tell you whether I can manage it."

"I need you to kill an angel for me."

This caught Amon's attention. His dark brow furrowed and he stopped twirling the phone cord (which was probably a good thing, because if it had gotten any tauter it would have snapped).

"Not _your_ angel, surely?" Amon asked.

"No, no. A guardian. Cherub level, I believe. He's getting in the way."

"I see. And you can't dispose of him because…?"

"I don't want to upset Azi – er, my angel."

"Mm-hm." Amon tapped his chin thoughtfully, then said, "All right. I'll do it. What's the bastards name?"

"Jophiel."

"And he's in London?"

"Yes."

"All right. Expect him to be gone by morning."

"Thank you, Amon."

The line went dead.

Amon stared at the phone for a moment, then snorted. He stood with a stretch in preparation to go topside and shook his head with a tiny smile, wondering what that sly demon was up to.

o-o-o

To say that Adam was distressed would be, while not quite the understatement of the century, a great understatement indeed. He fidgeted in the back of the Pulsifers' little silver car (Newt's Wasabi had died a couple years back) as they drove to Soho, planning on telling Aziraphale what they had discovered. His mind was in a tizzy, full of double murders and prophecies and demons and little girls.

It made sense that he was supposed to kill Molly, when he really thought about it. He was the Antichrist, she was – if he could believe it – the bringer of salvation, and apparently protected by God… they were natural enemies, right?

But then why had Adam not felt the urge to destroy her upon their first meeting? It would have been easy, really. She was eight. Aziraphale would have been the only witness. Adam could bend the world to his will. He could have pulled it off with little problem…

_No_, he thought to himself. _I won't even entertain the thought of killing her. It won't happen. I can fight this_. _I think._

Adam glanced up as Newt pulled over beside Aziraphale's bookshop. The windows were dark, and the sign on the door read _CLOSED_.

"It looks empty," Anathema said, squinting at the store. "I don't think they're here."

"I'll go check, just in case," Adam said. He slid out of the backseat, but as soon as he exited the car, a great power slammed into him, overwhelming his senses and sending his heart racing. Dog whined from behind him, and Adam wished he could do the same. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't move – all he could do was breathe, and it was even a struggle to do _that_. His throat felt clogged, the blackness rushed at him, surrounded him, trapped him, suffocating, impenetrable, and then –

Gone.

Adam came back to himself gasping, doubled over, with stars swimming in his eyes. Someone was calling his name, but all he heard was the flutter of phantom wings in his ears, and all he saw were two red, slitted eyes burned into his mind…

"Adam!" Anathema grasped his shoulder, her dark eyes worried. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Death," Adam gasped. "Death happened."

"What?"

Adam shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "Someone's going to die here. I can tell. We need to go. We have to find Aziraphale."

"Okay," Anathema said, gently helping Adam back into the car. "We will. Don't worry."

Dog crawled into Adam's lap as the silver car pulled away and licked piteously at his master's hands. Adam barely noticed. He looked out the window and was unsurprised to see a crow, black as night and big as an eagle, watching their car silently from the top of a building. Adam shivered and closed his eyes, and when he looked again, the bird was gone.

o-o-o

Deep in the depths of Hell, Raum accepted his minion with a graceful hand and a wicked smile.

It was time to begin.

o-o-o

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! And remember, people, COMMENTS ARE LOVE.**_


	5. In Which Angels Are Lost

_**Author's Note:** Welcome to Chapter 5, my dear readers! I won't blather too much here, but I would like to thank you for your reviews and support - you are all absolutely fabulous._

_Nothing much else to say, so just read on and enjoy! Thanks, guys!_

o-o-o

_"We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chess player's nature." _- Rudolf Spielman

o-o-o

**5. In Which Angels Are Lost**

Jophiel brought Aziraphale and Molly back to the bookshop around eleven o'clock the night before she was to be taken from Aziraphale's care. Jophiel kept watch outside while Aziraphale carried the exhausted little girl up to his bedroom. She snuggled down into the covers without even opening her eyes, and Aziraphale tucked her in with a smile. He turned to go, but a hand snagged his sleeve.

"Where are you going?"

Aziraphale smiled and sat on the edge of the bed while Molly blinked blearily up at him.

"Just downstairs," he said, smoothing some curls back from her face. "You need your rest."

"Can't you stay with me?"

Azirphale's smile turned apologetic. "Not right now. I need to speak with Mr. Crowley. But I'll come sit with you afterwards, all right?"

Molly muttered something noncommittal and vaguely acquiescent and closed her eyes again. Aziraphale flicked the lights off and slipped out the door, leaving it open a crack so the room was not pitch black, then headed down to the shop. A quick glance around showed Jophiel standing guard by the front door, still as a statue, ever the dutiful sentinel.

Aziraphale looked at his watch before picking up the receiver. It was 11:15. He dialed a familiar number and only had to wait through one ring before Crowley answered.

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes."

"It's about time. I'm assuming this is about the plan?"

"That would be correct."

"Good. You _do_ have one, then?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Crowley, I told you I had one this afternoon."

"Well you were acting all dodgy, so I couldn't really be sure. What's the plan?"

Aziraphale hesitated before saying, "You're not going to like it."

"We don't have time for this, angel. Just tell me."

"Well… first, you have to kill me."

There was silence on the line for a while.

"Crowley? Are you still there?"

"I – yeah. I just thought you said I had to kill you."

"I did say that."

"Funny. 'Cause I thought that was exactly what we were trying to avoid."

"No, we're trying to avoid Molly being handed over to a bunch of demons, and killing me is the only way to get an archangel down here to deal with your Earl."

"But –"

"Crowley, I can't handle the Earl, and neither can you. Even Jophiel would be outmatched. We need an archangel."

"Can't you just summon one?"

"There's a waiting list."

"But this is an emergency!"

"Yes, but I'd still have to file an official request and paperwork takes a while to go through Upstairs. The only time an archangel appears without protocol is when an angel has been killed. Now, after you kill me –"

"Hold on a second," Crowley snapped. "I am _not_ killing you, angel."

"Then we'll fake it," Aziraphale said soothingly. "But it has to be believable. We need to fool an archangel _and_ Raum."

Crowley growled for a few seconds, then blurted, "Fine. We'll figure it out. So what happens after you… _die_?" He spat out the last word as though it pained him to even think it. Aziraphale could not help a small smile at that.

"After that, you lead Raum to some secluded location where Molly will supposedly be brought to you and wait for the archangel to appear and deal with the Earl."

"But if I killed you, shouldn't the archangel go after me?"

"He won't."

"And you know this because…?"

"He won't," Aziraphale repeated firmly. "Bigger fish, and all that. Trust me."

Crowley sighed, but did not contest it. "And where will Molly be through all this?"

"Here with me."

"And after your archangel has dealt with Raum…?"

"Hopefully by then Molly will be out of my charge, and safely out of our hands. We can go on as before."

"That's it? Az, you know Raum won't be the only one after Molly."

"I never said the plan was perfect, but it's all we can do for now."

Crowley was quiet for a while more, and Aziraphale did not press him. Instead he watched Jophiel, still standing motionless outside the front door. A rainy drizzle had begun to fall, but the cherub seemed not to notice.

After a minute or so, Crowley spoke again, his voice small and almost frightened. "What if this doesn't work?"

This time it was Aziraphale's turn to be silent for a moment, and he smiled sadly even though he knew Crowley couldn't see him.

"Then it was nice knowing you, my dear."

o-o-o

Amon was very good at lurking. It came with the duties of being a highly respected Duke of Hell. He was so good at lurking, in fact, that he had once been asked to teach a seminar on it to the younger and less experienced lurkers in Hell, but that is beside the point.

The point is that Amon was so very good at lurking, he managed to disappear into the shadows completely when two angels of the lord and a very young girl passed him on their way back to Soho. The taller angel had eyes like a hawk and remained outside when the other two entered the shop. He was obviously an experienced guard, and his sharp eyes searched every corner and shadow.

It was a tribute to Amon's lurking skills that he was never seen.

He needed to make this quick. The cherub – Jophiel – was obviously rather powerful. Just a snappy discorporation, that was all he needed to do. It would be too much effort to kill the angel's host along with the angel, and Amon did not feel like setting up a crime scene, anyway.

Amon hefted the cursed knife in his right hand and peered across the street at the angel, who had not moved an inch since taking up his post outside the little shop. Even the rain had no effect on him. It was admirable, Amon thought, but not admirable enough to save the angel's life.

The demon took in a deep breath through his nose, clenched his fingers around the knife, and darted out from the shadows. He watched Jophiel's eyes widen, saw the angel lift a hand in defense, and then there was a flash of light, a burning pain in his shoulder, a gurgling sound, and hot blood on his face.

Amon landed nimbly on the pavement behind the angel and glanced behind him in time to watch the body drop, twitching, to the ground. A clean slice on the angel's forehead glowed for a moment, then began to bleed, and something smoke-like and vaguely wing-shaped seeped out of his mouth and vanished.

Amon wiped his knife on his jeans and sheathed it. He pressed a hand to his shoulder and it came away smoking and smelling of burned flesh. Clearly the angel had gotten in a hit before being forced to leave.

Bastard.

Amon glanced inside the shop for a second but the other angel was nowhere to be seen. The demon crouched beside Jophiel's body – or, more precisely, whoever's body it had been before the angel had moved in – and touched two fingers just below the jawline. A steady pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips.

Perfect.

A light flicked on in the bookshop, and Amon knew he had to go. He rifled around in the pocket of his dark coat for a moment, fished out a crinkled piece of paper, laid it on the man's chest, and disappeared into the shadows again to call Crowley and tell him the job was done.

The man sat up about a minute later, holding a hand to his bleeding forehead and looking very dazed. He knocked on the door to the bookshop and a kind-looking man told him where he was, gave him a paper towel for his forehead, and offered to escort him to a nearby hospital. The man refused, asking simply to be pointed in the right direction. The kind-looking man obliged and watched with worried eyes as the man stumbled down the street and out of sight.

Aziraphale was about to head back inside when his eyes alighted on the crinkled piece of paper, which had fallen to the ground when Jophiel's host had stood. He stooped and picked it up with shaking fingers. There was one word written on it, in thin and spidery lettering, and it made Aziraphale's blood run cold:

_Check_.

o-o-o

By this time, Anathema had determined that the search for Aziraphale should be put on hold while she, Newt, and Adam grabbed a hotel room and a few hours of sleep. Adam could not argue with that. He was barely able to keep his eyes open anymore, and after fourteen unanswered phone calls and a complete inability to locate either Aziraphale or Crowley, his frustration had become almost too much to bear.

Which was why he ended up lying on the bedspread of a cheap little motel somewhere near central London, scratching absently at Dog's ears and staring at the rain outside his window, exhausted and yet completely unable to sleep. Newt and Anathema had taken the room across the hall, insisting he come get them if he needed anything. Adam knew they were worried. Hell, _he_ was worried. Someone was going to die in the bookshop tonight, and Adam could not shake the feeling that he was going to have something to do with it. It was a disconcerting feeling, to say the least.

Everything would be fine, though. Or so the logical part of his brain told him. He just had to stay in this cheap little hotel room all night, and everything would be fine. He could not kill anyone if he just laid here, without moving, without thinking, without –

_THRUM_.

Adam froze. Dog lifted his head and whined, wondering why his master's wonderful scratching had stopped, but Adam paid him no attention.

_THRUM_.

Adam cursed. The call was back. And it was louder than it had been before, more insistent.

Harder to resist.

Adam closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on something else, _anything_ else. He thought about the homework he had yet to do this weekend, the steady thumping of Dog's tail against his thigh, the gnawing pains in his abdomen that reminded him of how little he had eaten that day. He thought about Pepper, with whom he was supposed to have lunch on Tuesday. Wensleydale, off in the States. Brian, back in Tadfield.

But from there his mind betrayed him, and he thought of Aziraphale, missing and possibly dead. Crowley, missing and possibly a traitor. And Molly…

_THRUM_.

"No!" Adam yelled, curling into a fetal position, eyes scrunched tight and hands on his head.

_THRUM_.

Adam cringed. The call was not just a supernatural pressure anymore. There was a voice accompanying it in his head. A dark voice. A voice that told him to leave and answer the call, to rip and tear and kill and avenge. It was frighteningly familiar even though Adam knew he had never heard it before in his life, and he knew it was his father's voice.

His _real_ father.

_THRUM_.

The pressure was rapidly becoming unbearable. Adam tried to shrink away from it, but it refused to let up. His head felt like it was going to implode, it was so painful. He was utterly terrified for the first time in almost eight years.

And the scariest thing was that he knew if he stopped resisting the call, the pain would go away.

_THRUM_.

The call grew so loud that even Dog flinched, curling his ears back and pressing himself as close to Adam's legs as he could.

Because of this, he sensed the moment his master finally gave in.

Adam's shudders ceased, his body relaxed. He sat up on the bed and faced the rain-slicked window, blue eyes distant and determined. Dog backed away from him, growling low in his throat, floppy ears flat on his head.

A dark shape fluttered outside the window, and Adam rose. He walked over to the window, slid it open, and climbed out.

A looming figure met him on the street below, a mere shadow in the dark and rain. A too-white grin stood out on a too-dark face, and fiery eyes gleamed in the meager light.

The figure beckoned.

Adam followed.

o-o-o

"Anathema, you need to actually sleep if this whole 'get some rest' thing is going to work," Newt said from beneath a mound of blankets on the hotel's bed. Anathema nodded at him distractedly from her position at the room's tiny desk but her eyes never wavered from the prophecies she was perusing.

"I will," she said.

Newt sat up a bit and raised an eyebrow. "Sometime within the next few years?"

Anathema made a face at him and slammed the tome closed.

"I'm just a little confused, that's all," she said, rising and turning off the desk lamp. "Something about this situation doesn't add up."

"Wait. Agnes's prophecies don't make sense? You're joking!"

"The sarcasm is not appreciated, Newt."

"Sorry."

"It's just…" Anathema sighed and settled on the bed beside her husband, crossing her legs. "Nothing big is supposed to happen for another ten years or so. The only prophecies I could find pertaining to this are the ones I showed Adam this afternoon. Other than that, most of the prophecies about this Molly girl take place when she's much older."

"How much older?"

"Let's just say old enough to have a child, if you know what I mean."

Newt leaned back on his pillow. "So… she's really this generation's Virgin?"

"According to Agnes," Anathema said, her voice quiet.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

Newt watched his wife for a moment, then abruptly sat up and kissed her. Anathema blinked at him, surprised and pleased.

"What was that for?"

Newt grinned. "For living this curse with me."

"What curse?"

"That Chinese one. About living in interesting times."

Anathema smiled, placed a chaste kiss on Newt's cheek, and pulled him down to lie beside her. "You're very welcome."

Newt curled an arm around her waist, tugged her close, and sleep followed soon after.

o-o-o

Crowley did not even bother driving his Bentley to the bookshop that night. He trudged to Soho on foot instead, trying not to think about what would happen once he got there. The only thing that made him feel a little better was the constant sensation of eyes at his back. Any other night, it would either piss him off or scare the daylights out of him, but tonight he knew it was Raum, and that meant that everything was going according to plan.

So far.

He entered Aziraphale's bookshop without knocking. It was dark, and the only sound was the jangling bell above the door. Crowley looked around. He had not felt this uncomfortable in the bookshop since before the Apocalypse That Never Was. It was unpleasant.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale entered the shop from the back room, his brow furrowed and his hair mussed like he had been sleeping (although Crowley doubted that – the angel had never properly learned how to appreciate the sin of Sloth). "What are you doing here? It's late."

"I need the girl."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I can't do this, angel," Crowley said, his voice unsteady. "I can't risk my life – _our_ lives – for some brat we've known for two and a half days. Please don't ask me to."

"You would give up an innocent girl to save yourself?"

"I'd be saving your life, too!" Crowley protested. "Give her to me, and we both get to live."

"No," said Aziraphale, looking disgusted. "Are you even _listening_ to yourself?"

"Angel, _please_," Crowley said, taking a step toward Aziraphale. "He'll kill us. He'll kill us like he killed your guardian."

That made Aziraphale pause. "He… _Raum_ killed Jophiel?"

"And we'll be next." Crowley took Aziraphale's hand, his golden eyes desperate behind darkened glasses. "Aziraphale, _please_. Just let me take her."

"No!" Aziraphale wrenched his hand out of Crowley's grip. "I can't believe you're even _asking_ that of me! No, Crowley. Just leave. I – I can't look at you right now."

"I won't leave without her," Crowley said.

"You will." Aziraphale glared, and Crowley was forcibly reminded of how unnerving divine wrath could be when it was directed at him. "Or I will force you."

Crowley snarled and cracked all of his knuckles, his fingernails suddenly seeming much more claw-like in the dim light of the shop.

"Try," he growled, and lunged for Aziraphale's neck. The angel caught his outstretched claws and landed a solid kick on the demon's bruised ribs, and the fight began.

It was like the old days, when they had actually fought to kill. There had been no need to choreograph anything ahead of time. The fight was an ancient dance memorized by both angel and demon long ago, and although it held the appearance of lethal fury, the truly devastating blows were easily deflected and slightly misaimed, something a casual observer would never notice.

Which was precisely what they were hoping for.

"You think he's watching?" Crowley muttered, landing a sharp blow on Aziraphale's cheek. The angel hissed in pain and paused to spit out a gob of blood and a tooth. He flashed Crowley a disapproving look, so fast the demon almost didn't catch it.

"Now, really."

"Sorry. Trying to make it look authentic." He punched Aziraphale in the gut. Aziraphale coughed and doubled over, but Crowley caught him before he could fall.

"I'm going to bite you now," he hissed into the angel's ear. "It might hurt a little, so my apologies in advance."

"Just do it," Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. Crowley drew in a deep breath, then sank his fangs deep into the soft skin of Aziraphale's throat. He felt the angel stiffen in his arms, going rigid as the venom seeped into his system, but Crowley knew exactly how long he could maintain contact before he killed him. Aziraphale would be fine.

The seconds went by slowly, and Crowley found himself almost enjoying the taste of Aziraphale's blood before he reclaimed himself and managed to break away. Aziraphale went limp and Crowley mentally apologized one last time before letting him slide bonelessly to the ground. He stared at the angel, rather horrified with himself. Sure, this was all planned, and it had been Aziraphale's idea in the first place, but the sight of the angel's dead blue eyes staring into nothingness gave him the shivers.

"Well done."

Crowley spun to watch Raum walking down the aisle toward him, a mere shadow in the darkness. His slitted eyes were fixed on Aziraphale's still form and he appeared to be smiling.

"Even though I know it was all fake," Raum said. Crowley's eyes narrowed.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You can stop acting now, dear Crawly," Raum said, sounding bored. "I know. Of course I know. You were going to pretend to kill him, hoping to trick an archangel into coming here set on divine vengeance, and I was going to be caught in the crossfire. It was a very good plan. Or, it would have been if I didn't know about it." Raum lifted his scarlet gaze to meet Crowley's eyes. "I'm just impressed that you managed to kill him anyway."

Crowley's blood turned to ice in his veins. He tried to say something, but his voice caught in his throat and only a croak came out.

"He _is_ dead," the crow-demon said slowly. "Did you not know this? You killed him."

Crowley stopped breathing. He looked at Aziraphale, lying motionless at his feet.

"No," he rasped. Raum smiled.

"You can confirm it, if you like. We have some time before that archangel is expected. I will wait."

Crowley fell to his knees, not caring anymore that Raum knew about the ruse, that the whole act had been futile. All that mattered was that it wasn't true.

Aziraphale could not be dead.

Crowley touched the angel's face, placed a hand over his heart. No movement. No steady thumping beat, no rising and falling with breath. Nothing. Just stillness.

"No. No, don't do this to me," Crowley said, desperately, quietly, completely ignorant of Raum grinning above him. "Don't leave me. _Angel._"

"This is touching, but we have other matters to attend to," Raum said. "Leave him."

Crowley was not listening. He could only stare at Aziraphale's pale face, the sightless blue eyes, the tiny flecks of blood still on his parted lips, and the gaping, blackened, sluggishly bleeding wound at his neck.

Dead.

He was dead.

And Crowley had killed him.

"No," he whispered. "No, that shouldn't have been enough to kill you, I _counted_, I was so sure, I –"

Raum lashed out in sudden fury, leaving Crowley with a stunned expression and three deep gashes on his cheek.

"This is no time for regret and sentimentality," the crow demon hissed. "I am being merciful. I have chosen to overlook your treachery because in the end it has helped our cause, but now we must move on." He flicked Crowley's blood from his talons and straightened, teeth flashing in a wicked grin. "We have work to do."

o-o-o

_**A/N:** I am evil, yes I am. Thanks for reading, reviews make my life!_


	6. In Which Tables Are Turned

_**Author's Note:** I must admit, I'm not too thrilled with this chapter. It took a reeeeally long time to get out, and even now there are parts I'm not happy with, so my apologies ahead of time if the flow isn't completely right._

_Otherwise, sorry about the long wait, and I hope that - despite my own beefs with it - this chapter was worth the wait! Comments are, of course, muchos appreciated and encouraged. Thanks, guys!_

o-o-o

_"The isolated pawn casts a gloom over the entire chessboard." - Aaron Nimzovich_

o-o-o

**6. In Which Tables Are Turned**

Heaven, as previously mentioned, can sometimes be overly warm, to the point where certain angels used to air-conditioning and drizzly London weather may get the feeling that they are baking in their traditional white robes.

This was the first thing to come to Aziraphale's mind when he awoke.

Well, that, and the frustrated voice ordering him to rise.

"Get up, Aziraphale," the voice growled. "I did not bring you here to have you lie in a faint all day."

Aziraphale attempted to rouse himself, but he only got so far as shifting his left arm before the pain of his abrupt discorporation caught up with him.

"Ouch," he said.

A strong hand grasped him by the arm and tugged him roughly to his feet, ignoring the hisses of discomfort, and Aziraphale found himself face to face with an attractive man with curly brown hair who was frowning at him in a disapproving manner.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, slightly dazed. "Hello, Gabriel."

"Hello," the man said. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Er, yes. Just let me get my bearings." Aziraphale pulled out of Gabriel's grip and rubbed at his eyes – he did not need glasses in Heaven, but the sun was very bright. They were standing in a marble pavilion surrounded by a field of what looked to be wheat. The golden grasses swayed in an almost nonexistent breeze and seemed to go on forever.

"I don't believe I've been here before," Aziraphale said, blinking.

"You have not. I am borrowing the premises from Uriel while he is off doing whatever it is he does with his free time," Gabriel said, squinting at the golden landscape. "At least it is private."

Aziraphale nodded and closed his eyes, basking in the sultry warmth of Heaven. He had almost forgotten how nice it was to actually be there once in a while. He had toyed with the idea of asking for reassignment somewhere in Heaven a few times before, but he knew a certain demon would not have approved…

Aziraphale's eyes snapped open.

"Crowley," he said.

"Is that your demon's name?" Gabriel asked absently. "I did not get a very good look at him while he was glaring at me from across the pond the other day." He smiled ruefully. "He seems quite fond of you."

Aziraphale flushed. "Yes, well," he said. "We've known each other for a long time. Can you find out where he is?"

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, his gaze growing distant. "He is currently on his way to retrieve the girl, with Earl Raum. We have little time."

"You're coming with, right?"

"Of course," Gabriel said. "The demon Crowley killed you, Aziraphale. He will not go unpunished. And if there happens to be a larger target nearby, as well…" Gabriel shrugged. "Who am I to question the will of God?"

Aziraphale smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

Gabriel inclined his head and turned to leave the pavilion.

"Wait!" Aziraphale said, grasping the archangel's arm. He lowered his gaze slightly when Gabriel faced him and asked, almost guiltily, "How is Jophiel?"

"Irate," Gabriel said with a slight smile. "But a necessary sacrifice, nonetheless. He would only have gotten in the way. You did the right thing in asking your demon to get rid of him. May we go now?"

"Of course."

Gabriel stepped down into the golden field and lifted his arms. There was a flash of opalescent light and a sound like two broad sails being caught by the wind, and then his great wings were spread behind him, shining in all their pearly white glory.

Aziraphale stared. It had been a long time since he had seen an archangel's true Presence.

"Come, Aziraphale," Gabriel said over his shoulder, flexing his wings in readiness for flight. "We do not have all day."

o-o-o

The dark figure kept leaping in and out of view on the street ahead of him, but Adam managed to follow it with little trouble. It would turn to face him every once in a while, bright teeth gleaming against its too-dark skin – the personification of mischief. It was planning something for him. Something deviant, against the will of a greater power.

Adam's bare feet were beginning to hurt. It had stopped raining, but he felt like he had been walking for hours and he still had no idea where they were going. He tried asking the dark figure a couple of times but the figure refused to speak, and no matter how fast he walked, Adam could not get close enough to catch it.

"You're not my father, are you?" Adam finally called, and the figure grinned at him and skipped into a patch of shadows. Adam grumbled and trudged on.

He began to let his mind wander as his feet did the work for him. He wondered if Anathema and Newt had realized he was gone, or if Dog had already alerted them to what had happened. He also wondered where Aziraphale and Crowley had gotten to. The demon, at least, had to have some sort of plan. He was always trying to weasel his way out of destiny. Adam figured he could probably learn something from Crowley; maybe then he wouldn't be following a mysterious dark figure to what could, in all probability, be his doom.

The dark figure swung around a lamppost ahead of him and stopped, pointing down a dark street. Adam came up beside the figure and peered in the indicated direction.

"So," he said, "that's where I'm headed?"

The figure nodded.

"You're not coming with me?"

The figure grinned, winked one fiery eye, and vanished into the shadows.

"I'll take that as a no," Adam muttered, and headed down the street. He recognized it, of course. Aziraphale's bookstore was straight ahead, and the part of him that had answered the dark figure's throbbing call knew that was his destination.

None of the streetlights were working, and the entire block was black as pitch. No sound came from the buildings or alleys or even the surrounding city. Everything was muffled and dark, and the entire scene reeked with wrongness.

Adam approached the bookstore with caution, his eyes surveying every shadow. He pressed a shaking hand to the door, then jerked it back with a hiss of pain.

"Damn," he said, holding the hand to his chest. His palm was smoking slightly, as though burned, but the door had not been hot. It had been icy, alien…

Wrong.

Adam tried to peer through the side window into the store, but the shades were drawn and everything was dark inside. All he saw was his own worried reflection. He wondered for a moment if he should try calling out to Aziraphale, but then decided against it. No need to call undue attention to himself.

He kicked the door open and was hit from within by the sharp sense of wrongness and the heady stench of blood. Adam reeled for a moment, fought back the urge to vomit, and forced his way through the spiritual miasma and into the abandoned store.

"Oh, God," he said when he spotted Aziraphale's body. He did not have to check for a pulse to know the angel was dead; the bloody throat and unseeing eyes told him enough.

Adam stepped over to the body and bent to close Aziraphale's eyes, pausing a moment to control himself (emotions were a dangerous thing in the hands of the Antichrist). He briefly rested a hand on the angel's cheek. The skin was cold and clammy. It made him shiver.

Adam let out a shaky breath, still trying to remain calm, and rose. The dark figure had not wanted him to see Aziraphale. He had been led here for a different purpose.

Adam picked his way through the mess in the front of the shop – had there been a fight? – and headed for the back room. It was as dark as the rest of the store, but Adam knew what to do. He made his way blindly over to a low table and picked up a small book of matches. He lit one and carried it over to a shelf on the far wall, then picked up a nondescript white candle and lit the wick. He flicked the match, dousing the flame, and gripped the candle with both hands, then said a command. The room shook, the flame glowed blue, and a tiny voice appeared at his side.

"Mr. Fell?"

Adam dropped the candle.

"Molly!"

The little girl stooped and picked up the candle, which was miraculously still lit, although its flame was amber once again. She blinked up at Adam.

"Where's Mr. Fell?" she asked. "He said he would be the one to get me."

Adam just stared at her, waiting for something in him to take over, to grab her, to kill her and fulfill the prophecies. That was what he had been led here for, right?

But… there was nothing. Adam looked at Molly and all he felt was concern. No bloodlust, no wrath. Nothing.

"Adam?" Molly asked. "Where is Mr. Fell?"

"He's, um, busy," Adam lied. "Where have you been?"

"Hiding." Molly handed the candle up to Adam with a smile. "And it's the best hiding place _ever_."

"Oh," Adam said. "Listen, we have to get you out of here."

Molly ignored him, instead looking around the room with a frown. "Why is it so dark? It feels funny."

"It's nighttime, and – uh – the power's out. Look, Molly, we –"

"Can I have the candle back?"

"Sure, here. I'm going to carry you out of here now, okay?"

Molly cocked her head. "Why?"

_Because that way I can hide Aziraphale's body from you when we pass it on the way out,_ Adam thought, but he said, "Because it'll be faster. Okay?"

Molly nodded, and Adam lifted her easily into his arms, careful not to burn himself on the candle she was cradling to her chest.

"Can you do me a favor?" he asked her as they approached the door leading to the bookstore.

"What?"

"Close your eyes until we get outside."

Molly frowned. "But I –"

"Please, Molly."

Maybe it was something in his voice, or maybe she saw the worry in his gaze, but Molly shut her eyes tightly and kept them closed until the jingling bell heralded their exit from the store.

"Thanks. You can open them now," Adam said. Molly did.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," Adam said, hurriedly swiping a hand over his eyes. His fingers came away wet, but he ignored that. "Let's just get you somewhere safe, okay?"

"Okay," Molly said, and hunkered down into his arms, still holding the candle close to her chest.

o-o-o

Crowley was numb, thank Go– … Sat– … Churchill. He followed Raum with barely a thought as to whether it was right or wrong. He figured it did not matter anyway, as he had already done the worst thing he could think of. What was the harm in taking another life when Aziraphale's was already gone?

He stopped himself there. It hurt to even think the angel's name.

"Useless."

Raum stopped in front of the dark window of an abandoned drugstore and pressed one of his dark claws against the glass.

"She should be here."

Crowley eyed the storefront. "Really?" he asked.

Raum shot him a fierce glare and Crowley shut up. His cheek still hurt from the last time he had angered the crow demon.

"The angel hid her away. I followed her scent to this location," Raum said. "She disappeared from here not three minutes ago." He scraped his claws across the window with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, and then the window was simply not there.

"Come," he said, and entered the store.

Crowley followed him. The store seemed basic enough, with aisles of makeup and medicine and greeting cards, but there was a presence there that he recognized. His breath caught in his throat and he dared the slightest hope.

"Aziraphale," he whispered, not quite loud enough for Raum to hear. He could feel the angel, the warmth that always surrounded him, the sensation of safety, of peace, of muted power. Crowley glanced at Raum to make sure the earl was properly distracted in his hunt for the girl, then snuck off toward the register, where Aziraphale's aura was strongest.

He was not sure what he expected to find. The tiniest part of him wanted to see the angel behind the counter, waiting for him with a smile and maybe even a little hug. A larger part just wanted some kind of assurance that the angel really was alive.

All he found was a small white candle.

Crowley huffed out a sad little laugh and picked up the candle, turning it over in his hands. It was warm and the wick was still smoking, as though it had just been blown out. Crowley opened his mouth to tell Raum, but hesitated. His hands clenched around the candle. This was all he had left of his angel. What if Aziraphale was still alive? What if this candle could lead Crowley to him…?

"Crawly."

Crowley spun to face Raum, slipping the candle into his pocket. "Yes, lord?"

"I found her," the demon said with a sharp smile. He gripped Crowley's arm tightly in one talon and whisked him away in a flurry of dark wings.

o-o-o

Adam did not really know where he was going. What was safe anymore if even Aziraphale's shop was subject to raid and the angel subject to murder?

He glanced down at the dozing girl in his arms, who was still cradling the lit candle in her arms. She had been lulled to sleep by his steady paces, and despite the fact that they had been walking for about fifteen minutes, the candle had barely even flickered. Adam did not think the wick looked any lower, either, and there was no dripping wax to worry about. There was no way it was a normal candle.

Adam finally stopped walking just outside St. James Park. He was still barefoot, and his feet were sore and filthy. He resituated Molly in his arms, barely jostling her, and headed into the park. He had just made it inside when something in the shadows caught his eye.

"You!" he hissed at the dark figure, glaring in reply to its fiery gaze and bright white grin. "You're the one who led me to Molly. So now what do I do?"

The figure said nothing, but its usual grin disappeared. Its glowing eyes darted off to something over Adam's shoulder and it pointed in that direction.

**'**_**WARE.**_

The word was not spoken. Rather, it filled the night air and pressed into Adam's mind like the throbbing pulse from before. He winced and clapped the hand not holding Molly to his ear.

"What happened?" Molly asked, having been awakened by his jostling. She clutched at his shoulder with one little hand and looked up at him with worry in her eyes. "Adam?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head to clear it. "I just… it's nothing." He looked up and was unsurprised to see the dark figure had disappeared. Adam glanced behind him and saw two dark silhouettes standing across the street. He could sense their power, and he knew they were demons.

"Who are they?" Molly asked quietly, her eyes wide.

"I'm not sure," Adam said. He straightened to face the silhouettes. "Would you like me to put you down?"

"No!" Molly shifted the candle in her grip so she could cling even more fiercely to Adam.

"Okay, okay," Adam said, tightening his arms around her. "You'll be fine." He grinned down at her, trying to appear confident when in actuality his heart felt like it was about to pound out of its chest. "Let's see what these guys want."

o-o-o

_This isn't right._

The words kept running through Crowley's head as he watched Adam approach with the girl in his arms.

_It isn't right. It isn't right._

"Give me the girl," Raum whispered, his soft voice eerily carrying the distance between the demons and Adam.

"I don't think I will," Adam said with a defiant glare.

_Atta boy,_ Crowley thought, but of course he could say nothing.

"You are a fool, Lord of Darkness," Raum hissed. "Remember your place. Remember your _side_. It is your duty to bring about her destruction, as she will bear your enemy. Now give her to me so I may deliver her to your father."

Adam grinned. "If my father wants her so badly, why doesn't he come up and take her himself?"

It took all of Crowley's will power to keep from clapping a hand to his forehead. Had Adam not learned his lesson the _last_ time he challenged his true father?

"He thought you would be worthy to carry out this charge," Raum said. "Clearly he was wrong." He took a single step forward. "You have one more chance, boy. Hand her to me, or I will take her." His voice was calm, but the latent threat was there and it sent a chill down Crowley's spine.

Molly whimpered and turned away from the demons, burying her face into Adam's shoulder. The boy looked pale. There was no way he could defend the girl on his own. Crowley glanced at Raum and saw a broad grin spreading on the earl's dark face.

_This isn't right._

"Damn," Crowley muttered. He stepped between Raum and Adam and fixed the crow demon with a fierce glare. "I can't go along with this," he said.

Raum narrowed his scarlet eyes. "Step aside, Crawly. _You_ I will not hesitate to kill."

"Crowley, what the hell are you doing?" Adam demanded from behind him.

"The right thing," Crowley muttered.

"Fine," Raum whispered, spreading his arms wide. Black shapes began to gather on his long dark cloak, ruffling feathers and clicking beaks and talons. "You leave me no choice."

"Get the girl away from here," Crowley said to Adam over his shoulder. "I'll hold him off."

"Surely you jest, dear Crawly," Raum said with a gleeful smile. "You are no match for me." His cloak was by now completely swarming with crows. They clamored their way out of the dark fabric and hovered in a cloud around Raum's outspread arms, beady eyes fixed on Molly, silent but for the brush of their feathers.

"Go, Adam," Crowley said.

"Go," Raum hissed, and the crows obeyed, starting for them in a wave of black feathery doom. Adam and Molly could both only stare in wide-eyed horror, but Crowley jerked at the boy's elbow and yelled, "Run!" Adam sprang to life, hefting little Molly into his arms and turning to go.

"Come on, Crowley!"

Crowley grinned the grin that had persuaded many an unsuspecting to human to do an evil deed or two and Adam froze in horror.

"Raum won't stop unless he gets one of us. He'll have to settle for me."

"But –"

"You need to think of Molly," Crowley insisted. "I'm sorry. This is something I have to do. Now go!"

Adam went, and although he thought he could hear screams as the black mass of beaks and wings hit the demon, he did not dare look back until he was sure the carnage was far behind and the crows had dispersed.

When he did manage to muster enough courage to turn about, all he saw in the road were a few dark feathers and a tall figure standing ominously beneath a streetlamp. He shuddered and Molly dug her fingers into his shirt, burying her face into his neck. The figure stepped toward him.

"I will have you, too," Raum hissed, his voice carrying across the distance between them as easily as the wind. Adam clutched Molly tightly and drew himself to his full height.

"No," he called in an imperious voice, feeling suddenly righteous and pissed. "You will not touch her." He glared as ferociously as he could at the demon beneath the streetlamp. "You will not touch her," he repeated, willing the words to be true. "And you will do no harm to that demon."

"Fool," Raum breathed. Adam's glare intensified, and the streetlamp cowered even though the demon beneath it remained steady.

"Leave this place," Adam commanded, pouring all of his will into the words. He saw the crow demon waver for a moment before finally acquiescing.

"As you wish, my lord. But your father will hear about this." The demon bent in a mock bow, then dissolved into a shadow of black wings and feathers and was gone.

o-o-o

The tall man sat back in his throne, his fingers steepled before his face. He stared intently at the chessboard in front of him, then placed a finger on top of the black queen and slid it forward three spaces. A moment passed in silence, then another, and then two white pawns appeared in attack position on the black queen's flanks. The tall man chuckled and rubbed his chin.

"Well played, Father," he said.

"My Lord."

The man glanced up from the chessboard, and his eyes burned into the figure lying prostrate on the floor before him.

"Raum," he said. "You have failed me."

"No, My Lord," the crow demon said. "Your son –"

"Do not blame this on my son," the tall man interrupted. "He has been manipulated by one even more powerful than I."

"Of course, My Lord, but you must understand –"

"You are incompetent." The tall man flicked one hand lazily in Raum's direction and the crow demon's neck snapped with a satisfying crack. "Pathetic," the tall man muttered, then turned his attention back to the chessboard.

Things were about to get very interesting.

o-o-o

_**A/N:** Thanks for reading, guys! I live on feedback!_


	7. In Which Heaven Is Stingy

_**Author's Note:** Long time no update, and my apologies for that, dear readers! I've been stuck on some other fandoms and then I had to take a summer class that kept me rather busy, but... eh. You don't care about my excuses._

_So without much more ado, here is the seventh chapter! I'm pretty sure the next chapter will be the last, so keep an eye out for that._

_Reviews are wonderful and encouraged, and I would like to thank everyone who has given me feedback - you all rock. Thanks guys! Enjoy!_

o-o-o

_"The winner of the game is the player who makes the next-to-last mistake." - Savielly Tartakover_

o-o-o

**7. In Which Heaven Is Stingy**

It was the best stay in Hell Crowley had had in centuries.

Adam's order for him not to be harmed had really paid off. Instead of having to deal with his flesh being flayed from his bones, Crowley was able to enjoy scotch and cigars in Amon's office with the big demon, who was taking some time off to heal his shoulder.

"You lucky devil," Amon chuckled. "How in the Hell did you get the Antichrist as an ally?"

Crowley shrugged and sipped his scotch.

"Lucky devil," Amon snorted again, but Crowley was not really paying attention. Now that he was not worried about saving Molly or being tortured by Raum in a fiery pit of agony his mind had nowhere to go except to Aziraphale.

The more he thought about it, the less he believed the angel was dead. Crowley knew he had hurt Aziraphale much worse back when they were true enemies. Hell, back then he had injected _liters_ of venom into the angel and it had never so much as fazed him. Then again, it had been at least a century since Crowley had used his venom on Aziraphale and it was possible that whatever tolerance the angel had built up to it had faded. Or maybe the angel was just getting old.

That thought made Crowley smile. He could just picture Aziraphale denying that notion, tutting and flushing and insisting they were at least the same age.

The smile was painful. It felt wrong for Crowley to feel anything other than emptiness while he was still uncertain of Aziraphale's condition. He slipped a hand into his pocket and fingered the small white candle he had taken from the convenience store. There had to be a way for him to use the candle to get Aziraphale back. He did not think it was pure coincidence that he had found it and been able to take it without Raum noticing.

Now his only problem was figuring out a way to get out of Hell.

"You're quiet," Amon said, eyeing Crowley from across his desk.

"I'm thinking," Crowley said.

"Trying to come up with an escape plan?"

"Yes."

Amon leaned back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke up into the dark recesses of his ceiling.

"There'll be paperwork to go through, you know," he said. "Official requests, required interviews, waiting lists. Not to mention how long it could take just to get another corporal form."

Crowley said nothing. He knew all of that. It could be years before he managed to get back to Earth and for all he knew he could be going back to an angel-less planet. That thought was not a comforting one.

"But you see," Amon continued, "being a Duke means I can waive all of those little details. I could be up wreaking havoc on Earth in less than a day if I wanted. But this damn shoulder…" The big demon flexed his wounded arm and winced dramatically. "I don't think I'll be going top-side any time soon."

"What's your point, Amon?" Crowley growled.

Amon blinked, looking completely innocent. "Oh, I don't have a point, really. I'm just saying how unfortunate it is that I won't get to do my Duke-ly duties on Earth because of my injury. I don't even have anyone to act as my proxy at the moment. It's truly, truly unfortunate." He looked meaningfully at Crowley, who started to grin.

"Oh yes, how terrible," he said. "If only there was some way I could do your work on Earth _for_ you."

"By Jove!" Amon boomed, slamming one massive fist onto his desk. "What a capital idea! You can start immediately. Take this." He reached into his pocket and handed Crowley a small silver pendant. "It'll let you bypass security on your way out. Just tell them Duke Amon sent you."

Crowley drained his scotch and took the pendant in hand. It was carved into the image of a wolf; Amon's own symbol.

"And Crowley," Amon said just as Crowley got to the door. "Be sure not to get sent down here again any time soon." The big demon grinned around his cigar. "I'd hate to have to find another substitute."

o-o-o

The city was dim and quiet in the hours just before sunrise. London was lit with a grayish light and the earliest of risers were just beginning to stir. The air felt damp and cool, the warning of an impending storm, and Adam really hoped it wouldn't rain before he managed to get back to the hotel. A downpour would be the final straw in a very long, very arduous night.

The chubby woman behind the hotel's front desk was yawning when Adam passed her on his way to the stairwell, Molly snoozing in his arms. He nodded at the woman and her round cheeks flushed rather cutely when she wished him a pleasant morning.

It took Adam the entire four-flight trek upstairs followed by a journey down the hall and around the corner for him to realize that he had not brought a room key with him when he had left that night. He stood and stared morosely at the locked door to his room for about a minute before he remembered that he was the effing Antichrist and could will the door open, which he did…

… only to be almost toppled over when Dog leapt at him in a frenzy of slobber and snuffling and droopy ears.

"Eugh! Stop it, Dog! Get down!" Adam snapped, and Dog – being the obedient Hellhound he was – obeyed. He sat in the middle of the doorway and blinked happily up at his master, tongue lolling and tail wagging and apparently satisfied that Adam was himself again.

"Doggie!" Molly was awake and reached with chubby little arms for Dog. Adam put her down and ushered both the little girl and the dog into the room.

"Play quietly for a bit," he told Molly as he made his way toward the bathroom. "I need to think."

"Okee dokee," Molly chirped and resumed her rubbing of Dog's stomach.

Adam relieved himself and ran some cold water in the sink. He splashed his face three times and it seemed to help wake him up. He could not imagine why he was so tired; he had pulled all-nighters plenty of times before and never felt quite as worn out as he did just then.

He combed his fingers through his hair, making it stick up every which way, and decided it must have been all the Antichrist-mojo he had used. It had been almost eight years since he had last wielded so much of his power. There was a chance he was not quite used to it.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Adam, I have to pee," Molly said.

"Okay." Adam opened the door and the girl scurried in past his legs. She slammed the door behind her with all the strength of an eight-year old embarrassed to be peeing in front of her crush and locked it with childlike finality. Adam smiled. She was a cute little kid.

Dog trotted over and pawed at Adam's pant leg.

"Hey, buddy," Adam said, stooping to rough up the dog's ears. "Sorry about scaring you earlier tonight. Am I forgiven?"

His reply was a wet nose in his eye.

"Good," he muttered, and gathered the little dog into his arms. It was only then that he realized he was shaking.

Aziraphale was dead.

Crowley was in Hell.

That crow demon was probably preparing for vengeance.

Molly was still in danger.

And Adam was only one person, Antichrist or no.

The situation officially sucked.

o-o-o

Aziraphale tasted blood.

He breathed in and something rattled in his throat and then he coughed and retched quite abysmally. He struggled to turn onto his side and spit something red and gelatinous onto the ground.

"Yuck," he tried to say, but all that came out was a pitiful rasp.

A pale hand entered his vision, offering to help him to his feet, and Aziraphale took it. He looked around and noticed that they had apparently landed in his bookshop and Gabriel was watching him with uncharacteristically worried eyes.

"What?" Aziraphale asked, but it came out as more of a croak.

"Are you feeling all right?" Gabriel asked. "The only way I could get you down here so soon was if we used your old corporation, though I did not think it would be so mutilated. I believe your demon went a bit overboard with your death."

Aziraphale's hand flew to the wound on his neck, which was warm and still oozing. He pulled his hand away and saw that it was covered in blood. It was strange; he thought it should hurt much more than it did.

"I didn't think Heaven was so stingy with its corporal forms," he croaked.

"We are on a tight schedule," Gabriel said. "There would be far too much paperwork to go through for a new body. You will just have to make due with this form until the situation is taken care of."

Aziraphale sighed wetly and adjusted his cracked spectacles. He did not like to complain, but part of him thought that was particularly unfair, especially since Gabriel's current form looked like a brown-haired, gray-eyed god of body cologne. But Aziraphale supposed that sort of corporal form came with archangel status. Michael in particular was famous for his beautiful corporations.

"Fine," he said, deciding not to dwell on it. "What now?"

"Now we find your Crowley," Gabriel said, and his eyes went unfocussed as he began to search. Aziraphale waited patiently and looked around the ruin that was his bookshop. He could feel the residual power hovering in the air and recognized it as Adam's, which would also explain the missing white candle in the back room. Aziraphale was not worried; he knew that Adam would protect Molly. He had been counting on it, in fact. The knowledge that the two of them were together put Aziraphale's mind at ease.

"The demon is not on Earth," Gabriel said.

"What?" Aziraphale wheezed, accidentally spraying some blood on Gabriel's jacket. Gabriel made a face and brushed it off.

"He is not here," he said, "which means he is either dead or in Heaven or, more likely, Hell. I cannot sense the Earl, either."

Aziraphale was dumbfounded.

"What about Molly?" he asked.

"The Virgin is safe. We can go to her, if you like."

Aziraphale nodded and Gabriel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. The world began to spin, then faded into a dizzying blur of color and motion and pressure before Aziraphale found himself standing beside Gabriel in the atrium of a cheap little London hotel. A chubby woman behind the desk blinked at them, her mouth in the shape of an "o".

"M-may I help you?" she asked.

"Which room is Adam Young's?" Gabriel asked.

The woman blushed under the archangel's intense stare and shuffled some papers on her desk.

"I'm really not s'posed to give out room numbers to strangers…" she said.

"Ah, but we are not strangers," Gabriel said, flashing her a withering grin that made even Aziraphale's knees go weak. "We are his friends. You would be doing us a very great favor."

The woman stared blankly at Gabriel for a moment, clearly stunned, and the archangel cleared his throat to regain her attention. She jumped a bit and her cheeks burned an even brighter scarlet as she turned her attention back to the papers on her desk.

"He's in room 46," she said. "You can go right up."

"Thank you, Bianca," Gabriel said with a charming little bow. "You have a good day, now." With that he gripped Aziraphale's arm and headed for the stairs, leaving chubby little Bianca star struck in his wake.

Aziraphale gawked at the archangel as they climbed the stairs. Gabriel looked at him, clearly rather uncomfortable.

"What?" said the archangel.

"That was… what was that?" Aziraphale rasped.

"I was just being polite," Gabriel said.

"More like beguilingly charming."

"It worked, did it not?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"But what?" Gabriel asked, now looking a little miffed, but handsomely so.

"That poor girl!" Aziraphale almost laughed, or would have if he could have managed it without spewing blood all over the stairwell. "It was almost coercion."

"It was necessary."

"Perhaps, but she's probably still gaping after you –"

"Do shut up, Aziraphale."

They had reached the fourth floor and made their way to Adam's room. Gabriel raised his hand to knock on the door just as it swung open, revealing a mussed and weary-looking Antichrist.

"Hi," he said, looking confused. "Can I help…?" The question died on his lips when he caught sight of Aziraphale, who smiled.

"It looks worse than it is, believe me," he said.

"You're… alive? But I saw… you were…" Adam trailed off and glanced back into his room, then stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He looked at Aziraphale and the angel noticed that his eyes were a little too bright. "I don't want Molly to see," he said, and then grinned. "You look like hell, Az."

"I know," Aziraphale said, looking apologetic. "But this was the best body I could get on such short notice. Is it really that bad?"

Adam did not answer. He simply stepped forward and gathered the angel into a tight hug, hiding his face in Aziraphale's non-bloodied shoulder. Aziraphale smiled and returned the embrace; it was rare for the teenager to show emotion, not to mention dangerous, but Aziraphale was not about to push him away.

"Thanks for not being dead," Adam muttered.

The door across the hall opened and Anathema stepped out, scrubbing a hand over her eyes.

"What's going on? We heard voices," she said, then froze when she caught sight of Aziraphale. Or, more specifically, the copious amounts of blood covering Aziraphale. She went abruptly, frighteningly pale.

"Newt!" she yelled back into her hotel room.

Gabriel stepped forward and said, "If at all possible, Mrs. Pulsifer, could we do this inside your room? I do not wish to attract attention."

"How do you know my name?" Anathema asked, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Aziraphale grabbed her shoulders and pushed her gently into the room.

"It's his business to know, my dear. Not to worry," he said.

"Lord of Darkness," Gabriel said, addressing Adam. "Will the Virgin be safe in your room whilst we convene in this one?"

"Yeah, Dog's in there with her," Adam said.

Gabriel blinked. "Dog… the Hellhound?"

"Yep."

Gabriel paused, fixing Adam with a calculating gaze. "You are a very strange Adversary."

"Yeah," Adam said, passing the archangel to enter Newt and Anathema's room. "I know. Let's go, pretty boy."

o-o-o

Crowley was exhausted.

First, he had traversed the length of Hell until he reached the Gates. By the time he reached them he was footsore and crabby and not at all in the mood to exchange witticisms and riddles with the disgusting figures of Death and Sin, who delayed him for a good hour or so despite the fact that he was bearing Amon's seal and had the Duke's permission to return to Earth.

Finally frustrated beyond reason, Crowley set the two of them to bickering and slipped out the Gates unnoticed. Then he had to trek across Chaos, a daunting task that would have been impossible had it not been for the protection of the tiny silver wolf that Crowley clung to like the lifeline it was. Crowley emerged at last in the London underground feeling drained and shaky. A quick glance around the station revealed that he was at King's Cross. From there he got his bearings, climbed up into the early morning sunlight, and headed for Soho.

There was hardly anyone on the streets so Crowley did not even both to hide his fatigue. His feet dragged, his shoulders slumped, and his unruly dark hair kept falling into his eyes. At least he had managed to will himself into a decently expensive black suit.

The front door to Aziraphale's shop was not locked. Crowley stood outside it for a while and tried to muster up the courage to go in.

He knew what he would see.

Or at least, he knew what he _expected_ to see.

Aziraphale. Dead and bloody and his fault.

"That's enough," Crowley growled at last, and shoved his way into the store.

Which was, apparently, empty.

Crowley stared at the bloody patch on the floor. He felt something boiling up in his stomach, something that felt disturbingly like giddiness. He was about to write it off as over-exhaustion when he realized what the empty shop meant.

Aziraphale was gone.

"Alive," Crowley whispered, and pulled the little white candle out of his pocket. There were matches in the back room, he knew. He willed them into his palm and struck one, then lit the wick of the candle and waited.

And waited.

And waited for a couple minutes more.

"Bollocks," he said, and was about to throw the candle down when the flame flared a blinding blue and he felt himself wrenched off his feet and into oblivion.

Except that oblivion felt suspiciously like rough hotel carpet and sounded suspiciously like Adam.

"Uh… Crowley?" Someone shook his shoulder, but Crowley was far too out of it to respond with more than an incoherent moan.

"Where did he come from?"

That sounded like Anathema, and that gentle hand on his hair seemed like something she would do.

"I'm not sure. Is that a candle?"

Crowley felt someone tug the candle out of his right hand and he thought perhaps some skin went along with it. It certainly burned enough.

"Can I see that? I think it's mine."

Something wretched and hopeful twisted in Crowley's chest at the sound of that voice, but try as he might he could not move or open his eyes. Someone knelt beside him and Crowley found himself surrounded by a familiar scent of fresh air and rain and light. It was an impossible scent. An angelic scent.

Aziraphale's scent.

Crowley forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry and edged dark with fatigue but he could barely make out the angel's form kneeling next to him. He was pale and bloody, as Crowley had feared, but his eyes were bright as they gazed at something over Crowley's head. The demon raised a shaking hand and reached out to touch the angel's arm, and something in him snapped at the contact.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said when he felt the tentative touch. He leaned down and placed a soft hand on Crowley's cheek. "My dear, are you quite all right?"

Crowley tried to say yes, he would be just fine, thank you, but his voice still was not obeying him. Instead he shut his eyes and squeezed Aziraphale's hand as hard as he could, which was not very hard at all but the sentiment was there.

"What's wrong with him?" Adam asked, peering at the demon over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I think he's just tired," Aziraphale said with a small smile of relief. Crowley opened his eyes to see that smile – the smile he had thought he would never see again – and something wet and warm ran down his cheek. Aziraphale's brow furrowed slightly and he wiped the tear from Crowley's cheek. Crowley closed his eyes and relished the touch, the undeniable evidence that Aziraphale was _alive_, here with him and well enough to bother comforting him.

"Here, let's get him on the bed."

That was Newt. Crowley tried to turn his head to see him but then the world lurched alarmingly and he found himself in Adam's arms. The teenager deposited him gently onto the bed and Crowley finally got a chance to look around the room.

There was Adam right beside him, and the Pulsifers at the foot of the bed. An unfamiliar man with brown curly hair stood inconspicuously near the door, and then there was the angel…

The bed sagged a little as Aziraphale settled himself next to Crowley. The demon did not think he had ever been happier to see him, despite the odd swath of bandages around the angel's throat and the blood still staining his clothes.

"We will leave you alone for a few minutes," the unfamiliar man said. He opened the door and stood waiting as Newt, Anathema and Adam filed out, then fixed Aziraphale with his sharp gray gaze.

"We will be across the hall. When the demon is ready, ask him about Raum."

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale said. "You needn't worry so much, Gabriel. Now go. Please."

The man, or – more accurately, Crowley supposed – archangel, nodded once and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley and smiled at him, his pale eyes almost sad.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Tired," Crowley managed to gasp. "Neck?"

Aziraphale lifted a hand to the bandages around his throat.

"Ah, yes," he said. "It doesn't hurt, so don't worry. But Anathema did have to work quite a bit to clean it up. You've gotten messier with age, my dear."

Crowley snorted and closed his eyes. Aziraphale gripped his hand again, squeezing reassuringly.

"I'm quite all right, Crowley," he insisted. "It's you we've been worried about."

"Me?"

"Well, the last we heard you were spirited off to Hell. That's not exactly an encouraging notion."

"The last _I_ heard, you were dead."

Crowley had not planned for his voice to crack on that last word, but there it was.

Aziraphale did not say anything for a moment, then murmured, "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you."

Crowley grunted.

"Gabriel thought it would be best if the ruse was completely secret."

"And since when do you listen to the orders of archangels?"

Aziraphale flushed slightly and said, "Don't be ridiculous, I always obey orders."

Crowley just smiled and closed his eyes again.

"Whatever. I'm just happy you're alive."

"As am I, my dear. Now get some rest."

o-o-o

_**A/N:** And so everyone's back together again! As per usual, comments are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!_


	8. Checkmate

**_Author's Note:_**_ My apologies once again for being so flighty about updating. I blame the Inception fandom._

_Anyway, welcome to the final chapter of Chess! I've had a blast with this story, and I would like to thank everyone who has stuck with me through all of my erratic updates and given me such amazing feedback. You guys are fantastic, and I appreciate your support more than you know! :D_

_I would also like to give a special shout-out to Holmsian, who recognized the Dresden Files reference in the last chapter. You are obviously awesome._

___So thanks again, and please enjoy! Much love to you all, dear readers!_

o-o-o

_"When the chess game is over, the pawn and the king go back to the same box." - Irish saying_

o-o-o

**8. Checkmate**

Lucifer slouched in his throne and watched the breath mist before his face. He habitually kept his private quarters a bit chillier than the rest of Hell. He had never really enjoyed all the fire and brimstone, as fun as it was to watch his demons burn sinners alive. He much preferred a milder climate in which to think, and that was precisely what he was doing now.

The Virgin was still alive, and apparently protected by the Antichrist. A wry grin spread across Lucifer's face when he thought of that. It seemed fitting that he – the most infamously rebellious son ever known – would father a child just as defiant, but that did not make the insubordination any more welcome. Adam was proving to be a problem. It was possible that Lucifer would have to kill him, which was unfortunate because such an affair promised to be messy.

Lucifer glanced down at his chessboard. The black and white pieces were currently at a standstill for the first time in days. The white queen was flanked by a few white pawns and a white bishop, and a black bishop was hovering nearby. The white king was resting easily in a corner. Lucifer glared at it and touched a finger to the piece nearest to him: the black king. It teetered dangerously.

Lucifer heaved a sigh and slicked a hand through his hair, then called out into the empty room.

"Moloch!"

A ghastly voice echoed in the chilly darkness of the cavern.

"Are you going out, sir?"

Lucifer stood, stretching his long limbs, and replied, "For a while."

"Shall I cancel your appointments then, sir?"

"Yes, thank you." He looked up at the frost-covered ceiling. "I'll be going topside."

"Have fun, sir," the ghastly voice drawled, and Lucifer disappeared in a flurry of black wings.

o-o-o

The third time Aziraphale looked in on Crowley that evening was the time the demon was awake. He was staring with wide golden eyes at the stucco ceiling.

"My head hurts like a bitch," were his first eloquent words, and Aziraphale had to hide a smile.

"I can imagine," he said, settling on the bed beside the demon and fussing with the coverlets. "Those candle weren't meant for demonic usage. They're full of holy power. In fact, I'm surprised you could even activate it." He paused then, hands resting lightly on Crowley's chest, and his voice was quiet when he continued. "How long were you in Hell?"

"Lost track," Crowley said, closing his eyes briefly. "Time passes differently there, you know."

Aziraphale nodded and his brow furrowed slightly. "How badly did they torture you?"

Crowley barked out a rough laugh. "Surprisingly, they didn't. Adam commanded that no one could hurt me and apparently his word is law." Crowley shook his head. "Never knew having the kid around could be so useful. Where is he, anyway?"

"Across the hall with everyone else. We've been waiting for you to wake."

"Really? Why?"

Aziraphale looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Gabriel has some… questions for you."

Crowley grunted and struggled into a semi-sitting position. His head throbbed from the change in altitude but he ignored it valiantly.

"Fine," he muttered. "You can send the feathery tosser in."

Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look, then stood and headed for the door. He just about jumped out of his skin when he opened it; Gabriel was standing right outside.

"I sensed that the demon was awake," the archangel said by way of explanation. "Is he ready to talk?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, standing aside to let Gabriel in. "But mind you, he's on our side. There's no need to interrogate him like a criminal."

Gabriel said nothing, only walked over to the end of the bed and fixed Crowley with his intense gray stare. The demon shifted uncomfortably.

"Well?" he grumbled. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you return?"

"Magic," Crowley said, voice dripping with sarcasm, but then he saw Aziraphale making a face at him and he added, "A friend did me a favor."

"Did Lucifer send you?"

"What? No. I haven't seen him in years."

"So you are not a spy?"

"No."

"Where is Raum?"

"In Hell, I imagine. Probably recuperating and healing his wounded pride after Adam dealt with him."

"I'm not so sure about that," Adam said, striding into the room with Molly clinging to his hand. "When I ordered him to leave last night I never said anything about returning. I thought he would come back as soon as he could. Something must have gone wrong in Hell."

"Like what?" Aziraphale asked.

"Lucifer does not enjoy failure," Gabriel said. "In all probability, the Earl is dead."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"No," Crowley said, his voice quiet. He was watching Gabriel carefully and could see the alarm dawning in the archangel's eyes. "You know what this means, don't you?" he asked, and Gabriel nodded once, lips compressed into a tense line.

There was a beat of silence before Adam spoke up, his voice pained.

"My father is coming, isn't he?"

That was when the temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees and darkness began to seep from every corner. Gabriel automatically stepped in front of Adam and Molly, ushering them closer to the bed and facing the black and open doorway with a fierce expression on his face. There was a great ripping noise and two great white wings spread through the room, filling the air with downy feathers and the smell of clouds and light as Gabriel shed his mortal corporation. The brown curls and gray eyes remained, but he glowed with ethereal radiance in his pure white and gold robes, complete with a shining circlet at his brow. (Aziraphale secretly grumbled at the injustice of Gabriel somehow managing to get even _prettier_ but then a dark shape filled the doorway, reeking of sulfur and wrath, and he knew now was not the time.)

"Gabriel," a deep voice cooed, and Crowley shivered at the latent menace in that sound. He saw Adam grip Molly close to his side and the little girl buried her face into his t-shirt.

"Lucifer," Gabriel said, and the menace in his voice was completely different. It was righteous, furious, surprisingly potent. Crowley decided he was glad the archangel was there. "What brings you up from the pit?"

"Oh, you know," Lucifer said, stepping into the light with a crescent-moon grin. "Check-ups. Errands. The like." Dark eyes flashed in Crowley's direction and the demon tensed, every muscle in his body going abruptly rigid. "How are things, Crawly? Going well, I hope?"

"Fine," Crowley said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. "And you?"

"I am disappointed, I must say." Lucifer leaned casually against the doorframe. "It seems I cannot trust anyone these days. I have to do everything myself. It is… irksome, to say the least."

"There is nothing for you to accomplish here, wretch," Gabriel said, his voice low and threatening. "Now leave before you force me to throw you out."

Lucifer laughed, a shockingly pleasurable sound. "Like you could."

Gabriel stepped forward, wings spread and gray eyes narrowed. "I've done it before. Or do you not remember?" A terrible smile played on his lips. "It was in Eden, little brother. Many ages ago. And you ran to your prison like the mangy cur you are, tail between your legs."

The air in the room dropped to quite near freezing. Crowley could now see his breath, and tiny fingers of frost were climbing the walls and windows. The shadows grew with the frost, devouring every remaining inch of light.

"Watch your tongue, Gabriel," Lucifer hissed, and his eyes flashed in the darkness. "I did not come here to kill you but that does not mean I won't."

"You will not kill me," Gabriel said. "I have the protection of our Father. Whereas you…" That terrible smile spread and Crowley thanked everything he could pray to that the archangel was on his side this time. "You are eternally damned."

A tiny gasp echoed through the room, and Molly tugged on Adam's shirt.

"He said a swear!" she stage-whispered, and every being in the room – demon, angel, and devil – looked to her in surprise. Adam shushed her and tugged her behind his legs, flashing a helpless look at Gabriel. The archangel simply closed his eyes and sighed.

"Be that as it may," he continued, his voice slow and deliberate, "you will not succeed here, Lucifer. God will not allow it."

Lucifer let out a terrible laugh and spread his arms.

"Then tell me, brother," he said. "Where is our mighty Father now?"

"Here."

The room went abruptly silent and every eye once again turned to little Molly, who did not look quite so little anymore. She was the same size physically, of course, but there was a light in her eyes and a new power in her bearing that made Adam draw away from her with wide, frightened eyes.

"Molly?" he whispered.

She looked to him and smiled.

"She is quite safe, Lord of Darkness. Do not fear." Then she turned sad eyes onto Lucifer, who suddenly looked much less composed than he had moments before.

"Father?" he asked, and Molly inclined her head.

"Lucifer," she said, somehow managing to convey eons of fondness and betrayal and disappointment in those three softly spoken syllables. "You are interfering again."

"Only because that girl you are so happily possessing is going to _destroy_ me," Lucifer spat.

"How narrow-minded you are," Molly said, her voice full of wonder, her head tilting to one side as she continued to fix Lucifer with her unnerving stare. Crowley realized belatedly that she had not blinked once since being possessed. To compensate, he blinked a couple of times himself. It did not seem to help.

"There is no reason for this, Lucifer," Molly continued. "This has been written."

"The Apocalypse was written, and these imbeciles managed to stop _that_," Lucifer retorted, gesturing furiously at Crowley and Aziraphale, who flinched. "Why then can I not stop the Coming?"

"That Apocalypse was not ordained by me, you poor vain creature," Molly said. "That is why it was fallible. It was created by you."

And Lucifer – called Satan, the Devil, the Great Adversary, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, King of this World, the Tempter – looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. His expression of utter despair lasted for all of about two seconds, and then he was glaring daggers at Crowley and Aziraphale once more.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm and jerked him closer to the bedside. He felt slightly better with the angel's close proximity, but that did not stop Lucifer's glare from piercing to the very core of his being. He felt Aziraphale stiffen and grip his arm as the force of the devil's glare hit him, as well. Five nicely manicured nails dug into Crowley's flesh as the glare grew heavy and painful, weighty with malice, throbbing with power and a hatred so strong that Crowley could not breathe, could not _think_, could do nothing but stare and tremble and wait to die, his lungs burning, his vision beginning to blur, the pain ever-growing, slowly crushing him and overwhelming him and _tearing him apart_…

"Do not blame them," Molly said, and the pressure abruptly released. Crowley drew in a sharp breath and at his side he heard Aziraphale do the same.

"Then what do you expect me to do?" Lucifer demanded, now turning his deadly gaze on Molly, who showed no signs of being affected. "You expect me to just leave? To let this maggot of a mortal conceive my adversary and bring about my destruction?"

"Yes, but there is no need to be so dramatic," Molly said, sounding for all the world like she was chiding a four year-old throwing a tantrum. "You may still attempt to thwart your adversary once he is born. That is your destiny, after all. But you will not interfere here any longer. Not with her." Molly took a single step forward and it was like the entire earth shifted beneath her. "You have lost this game, Lucifer. I gave you your chance. We have had our fun, but now it is over. You are out of players. Go home."

Lucifer's composed demeanor was cracking, and Crowley caught glimpses of the abomination lying beneath that beautiful façade. Dark eyes flashed an unholy scarlet, a serpentine tongue lashed, barely-contained wings – dark and twisted – writhed beneath the tailored suit jacket in agitation.

"Go home," Molly repeated, eyes narrowed, and Crowley could feel the utter _force_ behind those words. The air in the room shook and the walls creaked and the wind howled outside; it was like the entire world was bending in order to fulfill that one simple commandment, which even Lucifer could not resist. He threw his head back and let out a bestial scream that cracked the only mirror in the room before vanishing in a whirl of dark wings and inhuman shrieks.

Silence fell.

Molly blinked her way back into startled innocence, brown eyes wide and confused. The world reasserted itself. Gabriel shed his wings and glowing circlet for his mortal corporation, looking slightly weary. Aziraphale collapsed onto the bed beside Crowley and murmured something blasphemous that Crowley pretended not to hear. Crowley leaned unabashedly on his angel's shoulder and closed his eyes with a silent prayer that was just as blasphemous as Aziraphale's curse.

And then the Pulsifers peeked into the open doorway, arms laden with the take-out they had been sent to pick up.

"Why's the door open?" Newt asked, cocking an eyebrow as he dropped his armful onto the table. "Did we miss something?"

o-o-o

_Two months later…_

"You know," Crowley drawled from his seat in Aziraphale's kitchen as he watched the angel putting away groceries, "I think I like this corporation better than your other one."

"Oh really?" Aziraphale asked, bending to stow some biscuits in a lower cupboard. "Because the throat hasn't been torn out?"

"That," said Crowley. "And it has a much nicer tuckus."

Aziraphale straightened very quickly and spun so that his tuckus was out of Crowley's sight, his cheeks flushed a charming pinkish hue.

"My dear, did you really just say 'tuckus'?" he asked.

Crowley grinned and leered over his shades. "Perhaps."

Aziraphale was saved from having to come up with a fitting reproach by the ringing of his telephone.

"Yes?" he answered, narrowing his eyes at the still-grinning Crowley and very determinedly keeping his tuckus out of ogling range.

"_Oh, so you are in town. Good._"

Aziraphale frowned. "Anathema?"

"_Yes, it's me. Sorry for the short notice, but Newt wanted to meet some old friends in the city so... would it be all right if Molly and I came over for a bit?_"

"Of course." Aziraphale smiled a rather melancholy smile. "How is she settling in?"

"_Oh, she's fine. Missing her school friends, and her parents, of course. But she's a trooper. She loves Tadfield. And Adam has been taking the time to show her all of his old haunts. He's a surprisingly good influence on her, actually._"

"I'm glad to hear it. And you two can stop by any time this afternoon."

"_Thanks, Az. Take care._"

"Good news?" Crowley asked, sidling up behind the angel.

"Quite good," Aziraphale said, replacing the phone and turning to face Crowley with a brighter smile. "Molly is settling in nicely. She and Anathema are going to stop by later."

"Oh." Crowley seemed to deflate a little. Aziraphale frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"I was kind of hoping we'd spend the evening getting utterly pissed."

"Well, I doubt Anathema and Molly will stay too late. It is a school night, after all."

"Shall we say eight o'clock at the Ritz, then?"

Aziraphale grinned. "Sounds smashing."

o-o-o

_**A/N:** The end! Thanks for reading, guys!_


End file.
